


the iceman cometh

by princegrantaire



Category: Stargirl (TV 2020)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Drabble Collection, Hook-Up, M/M, Mirror Sex, Open Relationships, Pegging, The ISA Polycule, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 35,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: “Hiya, bud!” Larry says as he opens the door, grinning wide and bright at the sight of Jordan loitering on his porch. “What can I do you for?”Jordan gives one of his own pained smiles – the only kind he’s got – and gallantly brandishes the bottle of wine he’s brought along. It’s expensive, rarely glimpsed in the Crock household. So, it’sthatkinda night he’s gunning for. Nothing wrong with it. “Can I come in?” he asks, soft-spoken and accented. No surprises there.
Relationships: Henry King Sr./Jordan Mahkent, Lawrence Crock/Jordan Mahkent, Lawrence Crock/Jordan Mahkent/Henry King Sr., Lawrence Crock/Pat Dugan, Lawrence Crock/Paula Crock
Comments: 225
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slaapkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaapkat/gifts).



> this was originally written for a prompt sent by my beloved @slaapkat but i thought it deserved to be on here too since nothing's been posted (yet?) about the inevitably canon isa polycule. sporty's wildly bi!

“Hiya, bud!” Larry says as he opens the door, grinning wide and bright at the sight of Jordan loitering on his porch. “What can I do you for?”

Jordan gives one of his own pained smiles – the only kind he’s got – and gallantly brandishes the bottle of wine he’s brought along. It’s expensive, rarely glimpsed in the Crock household. So, it’s _that_ kinda night he’s gunning for. Nothing wrong with it. “Can I come in?” he asks, soft-spoken and accented. No surprises there.

“Aw, you didn’t have to wine and dine me, y’know.” Larry steps aside. “Paula says I’m an easy date.”

“How is she?”

Something’s got Jordan’s hackles up, that’s for sure. He’s fidgety as he makes his way in, slow and steady as if he’s waiting for the whole arrangement to fall apart with the slightest breeze, and Larry likes the thrill of the chase as much as the next guy but he’d like answers just as much. “Out. Took the kid to the movies,” he offers, “one of those, uh, girly ones for some mother-daughter bonding time. _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ or whatchamacallit.”

“Ah.” Jordan looks perplexed but doesn’t question it, one of his wiser decisions. “Right. You’re– free… ?”

Larry slides an arm around Jordan’s shoulders, carefully grabs the bottle while he’s at it, and presses a wet kiss to his temple. It resounds. “For you, Icy? Always. I keep telling you, we’re all _cool_ with it here. Cool? Get it?”

It’s a testament to how much he wants it that Jordan forces a laugh. “Hah. Yeah.” He nods, tilting his head to look at Larry. “I get it.”

“Good, that’s good to hear.” And Larry’s smile is all teeth as he backs Jordan into the nearest wall, popping a couple buttons open with his free hand. Oh, this guy and his _suits_. The moment Jordan gives in, the minute he realises he’s brought himself all the way here and he’s got no one else to blame for what he’s been craving, that’s when Larry can smell blood in the water. “Isn’t this what you came for?”

Jordan’s eyes dart down to Larry’s lips.

He’s got him.

“It’s– it’s our anniversary and Christine would– I just miss her,” Jordan admits, something like a stifled sob caught in his throat. Never let it be said Sportsmaster isn’t one for sympathy.

With that, Larry pulls back just enough. “Why didn’t you say so, pal? C’mon, we’ll make it special. You go upstairs and I’ll get us some glasses.”

—

There’s always a novelty to these trysts. Jordan is cold to the touch and moaning a litany of _Larry, Larry, Larry_ and this is one broken record that’s never lost its allure. Larry revels in the punched out sounds, the cut-off grunts he gets with every thrust, even the arm Jordan’s thrown over his own eyes. Overwhelmed – maybe. Trying to block out the reality of what no dead wife’s about to give him – likely.

Larry leaves imprints where he’s gripping at Jordan’s hips, blazing hot on chilled skin. That, too, is part of the charm.

“Hey, ah, bud, lemme– lemme get a look at you,” he starts, tangling a hand in Jordan’s hair until he’s staring up at him with glassy eyes and kiss-red lips, “Yeah, yeah, that’s more like it.” Now that he’s earned his attention, it’s Larry’s pleasure to reach down and stroke Jordan’s neglected cock, swiping a thumb across the head just to see where that gets him. The gasp is a nice surprise. “Thought we talked about you calling me Crusher.” He strokes Jordan’s cheek with the same hand he’d just been using for other, more immediate purposes and doesn’t miss the look he’s fixed with in return. “Crusher. Remember that? Wouldn’t want me to stop, would you?”

“Don’t,” is all Jordan manages before he’s wrapping his legs around Larry’s waist, drawing him in tighter. He’s not often this far gone. Then again, it’s been a good few weeks. “Don’t stop, _Crusher_.”

“Was that so hard?”

A couple of things certainly are.

Larry likes the heat pooling low in his gut at the way Jordan squirms, how his breath turns visible when he’s too distracted to rein in the cold. If nothing else, it gives him a couple ideas. He bends down to kiss Jordan, though it’s always been more of a bite, and pulls out just long enough to turn him over. The new angle makes them both groan. He nearly misses the mirrors Jordan’s got all over.

“How about you give me some ice ice, baby?” Larry asks, licking his lips.

For what might be the very first time in his life, Jordan actually snorts. “That was _terrible_ ,” he insists but his skin’s still turning blue, freezing all the way down to where Larry’s still in him, caught in the last remnants of fading warmth.

It’s exhilarating.

Unable to contain his excitement, Larry slaps Jordan’s ass and flinches at the abrupt sound of glass shattering. Or, rather, _ice_.

“Fuck.”

Jordan’s frozen, in more ways than one. “You… you broke it,” he gasps out. The shards littering the bed are immensely incriminating. Larry takes a deep breath, unhelpfully stares down at choice parts of himself that shouldn’t be currently visible.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, last time– last time it was all of you, right?” He’s scrambling for an apology. Anything. “Paula had to help me put your corpse in the freezer and you woke up completely f-fine–”

“You _broke_ it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Brainwave/Sportsmaster + Reconstituting!Jordan - MIRRORS - "Henry is embarrassed by Jordan's mirror bed; Crusher loves it. They find a middle ground, and Jordan's just happy to be there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU RANDOM STRANGER FOR THE VERY FUN PROMPT!!!!!!! i'm not sure i captured everything but i hope this is still good & enjoyable

It’s like standing in the open mouth of a furnace. Larry runs hot. To Jordan, most people do. What the vast majority of people don’t, however, is leave hand-prints in their wake. There’s gaps in the armour where Larry’s grabbed him, bare skin where it’d once been frozen over and crystalline. The shape of his hands on Jordan’s hips, perfectly outlined. A hint of what lies beneath the ice along his neck and the crook of his shoulder. It’s intoxicating.

Larry is all manic glee as a particularly hard thrust has Jordan gasping for breath – starkly visible now that he’s lost the presence of mind to control the cold. He redirects Jordan’s attention to the mirror, pulls his head back so he’s facing his reflection like it doesn’t make him want to scramble for purchase at the sight of what he’s been reduced to. With Larry’s chest against his back, and surely there’s no ice left there, and the precarious balance they’ve fallen into, there’s nowhere to go. “You like that, huh? I like it, too,” Larry says, grinning wide and distinctly shark-like, though his eyes are fixed on his own mirrored image.

“I still don’t understand why you need the world’s most absurd headboard,” Henry remarks, far less detached than he’d like.

Jordan’s resolutely forgotten his presence. Distantly, it strikes him as embarrassing. “I don’t– I don’t _need_ it, I just thought it looked–” He cuts himself off with what’s almost definitely a whine. “ _Crusher_ ,” he whimpers and finds it very hard to tell where he’s going with it as his eyes fall closed.

“Bud, bud, c’mon, we talked about this. You gotta watch,” Larry insists, sounding a stone’s throw away from disappointed as he holds Jordan in place once more. That, amongst other things that have the odd effect of leaving him speechless, is not to be looked too deeply into. “Where’s the fun if you don’t watch? Henry, help me out here.”

“Oh, you’re calling the shots now?”

Henry’s leaning against the mirrored headboard, still in complete disagreement with its very existence, and has somehow retained his pants throughout this entire cavalcade. At the very least, he’s hard. That’s plain to see. Larry winks and a laugh spills out of him, veering on the edge of manic. It’s the kind of thing only vigorous exercise has a tendency of awakening in him and Jordan can’t deny this might fit the bill. He’s in no position to deny much of anything as Larry’s hand wraps around his cock and he sees himself twitch in the mirror, a strangled groan caught in his throat. “Yeah, pal, I do that sometimes,” Larry allows, easy and open.

_You’re really letting **him** get you worked up like this?_

By now, Jordan thinks, he should be used to the occasional intrusion of Henry’s voice in his mind. Instead, as this singular clear thought manifests, he flinches and has the hysterical notion that Barbara would be much more considerate.

_You’ve got be kidding me, Jordan._

And next thing he knows, Henry’s kissing him – a hot press of lips against his own frozen ones, heady like the rest of it, almost clumsy with anger. Jordan can do little else but rock back into Larry’s every thrust, pulling Henry close out of sheer necessity.

He’s fast approaching a glorious precipice.

“Alright, baby!” Larry exclaims, exhilaration gone into overtime, as he strokes Jordan, “Crusher’s got ya, okay?”

Miraculously, that’s all it takes. Jordan’s coming with a shuddering moan against Henry’s mouth and he stays there, trembling through the aftershocks with Larry still inside him, until he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There’s a very good chance Henry might’ve had a point. All the same, his mind remains blissfully empty. With some manoeuvring, Jordan even manages to lay down, grateful to have escaped his dishevelled reflection, his heaving form once more wholly frozen.

“I didn’t even break you this time, bud!” Larry slaps Jordan’s thigh and the ice–

The ice _cracks_.

Larry’s eyes have gone very wide. Perplexed, Henry scoots closer, watches the cracks in the ice spread far beyond the entirety of Jordan’s leg with a rare expression of incomprehension. It’s moving faster than it’s got any right to be.

“What?” Jordan asks, malcontent at the sudden interest, until he feels – or, perhaps, _hears_ – the shifting ice. “Oh, no, no, no, _no_ –”

He falls apart.

For the longest time, neither Larry nor Henry moves. Jordan, now only the shards of a man, has little say in the matter.

“Yes, that is– concerning. Does that happen often?” Henry asks.

It’s proving difficult not to stare.

Thankfully, Larry recovers fast. “Yeah! Yeah, we just gotta chuck ‘im in the freezer and he’ll be fine. Now, where were we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT VITAL URGENT UPDATE: [there is now a SEQUEL written by the wonderful @slaapkat! crusher's power cannot be contained BABEY](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185534/chapters/64105981)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Brainwave/Icicle or Sporstmaster/Icicle or all three - A HELPING HAND - "After a particularly bad breakdown, Jordan gets help from an unexpected source(s)." [Hurt/Comfort could be nsfw or simple things like petting/massage/hug/favorite comfort food]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO! sort of a change of pace unfortunately and something of a downer so if you're not in the mood for post-finale angst, feel free to skip this chapter. it's not exactly the hurt/comfort from the prompt but hopefully will still suffice
> 
> (finale spoilers ahoy! + theories to how the gang mightve survived since we already see henry do that jr illusion to yolanda and all)

The illusion of death isn’t new nor difficult. Henry has seen his own end many times and has acted accordingly, has even lived through each final moment. He remembers, certainly more starkly than he’d like, the one that had come the closest. Merry and the aftermath, his heart closing like a fist. Junior, begging in the tunnels, had been a mere continuation of the catastrophe he’d stumbled into a decade ago. After a fashion, so had been the mirage he’d orchestrated for the benefit of these children playing dress-up.

Wildcat – the _latest_ Wildcat, the girl whose anger spills over and blinds her – fails to hit his throat, let alone an artery. Henry collapses, plays his part well, but can’t deny the pain in his shoulder. The blood’s real enough.

It’s only once the work of a lifetime starts coming apart at the seams, punctuated by a deep rumbling down in the caverns and the shifting of rocks long after the battle had gone quiet, that Henry understands there’s no need to crushed to death amongst Dr. Ito’s mindless henchmen and other remains of the day. The tunnels collapse, the shield he’s thought up barely holds against the impact and by the time Henry’s made it out, he doesn’t have it in himself to find any irony in his continued survival against what Junior couldn’t withstand.

For the longest time, he sits at the mouth of the tunnel and pants and doesn’t think of much at all beyond his rushing heart. The sparse woods around Blue Valley provide enough cover for the time being, though Henry knows no one will be looking. They never do. He clutches at his shoulder, fingers digging into the bloodied leather of his suit.

The certainty that he could stitch himself up in a pinch is not overconfidence, the lack of desire to do so – that’s where Henry falters.

He’s yet to bleed out in the half-light of a day coming to an inevitable close, and failure appears to mean very little in the grand scheme of the world, when a low, grating sound pulls itself along the forest floor and resonates. At a distance, it resembles no wildlife or search party. It’s rough, the painful crack of ice breaking under one’s feet. Familiar with the minutiae of the defeat of his life, Henry despises the jolt of hope.

But he’s not all wrong.

The temperature drops all at once and Henry, long past his best interest, _runs_. The closer he gets, the colder it becomes. He catches glimpses of panic, projected thoughts that hardly approach any sense and is nearly surprised to find that they are not his own. Henry’s shivering when he finds–

It’s Jordan and it’s not.

Pieces and fragments of Jordan, then. A broken statue of a man. The figure propping itself up against a tree, precariously off balance all the same, is only half frozen, bruised skin overtaking ice by inches. Henry stiffens, stops in his tracks.

On a good day, it’s Larry Crock who’s often dealt with the damage of choice encounters, content to let Jordan work himself out at leisure pace in the nearest freezer. Today is not a good day. Henry has never once seen it in action. Abruptly, he doubts anyone else has either. Jordan’s frozen side, all crystalline, remains… incomplete. It fails to be a gruesome sight on sheer basis of a long-standing friendship. His arm extends only to the elbow. An eye misses entirely. Underneath Jordan’s tattered shirt, there are gaps and holes in the ice. Henry looks at him as if he could never be a thing to be afraid of.

It’ll all grow back, it always has before.

The cold helps.

When Jordan drops to his knees, Henry joins him. He’s breathing harshly, visible still. “She wouldn’t– I told her I could protect–” Jordan gasps out, choking on a sob. He grabs at Henry with his good hand, the one that’s already turned to flesh and blood. “I just wanted to help people, I’ve always wanted–”

A groan like ice priming to shatter once more cuts off a manic agony. It seems clear holding himself together takes its toll.

Henry can’t help the twinge of distaste at snot and tears. That’s always been Jordan. Even now, he looks downwards in pursuit of a safety that won’t come. Unthinking, Henry reaches out to hold Jordan’s face, steady and uncaring of the shock of cold that burns his bare palm. “Jordan, listen to me,” he says, forcefully firm, “look at _me_. We’re here, it’s not all lost.”

It’s hard not to think of another time and another promise. All the ways Jordan had once painted the prospect of a new life in Blue Valley, everything they’d envisioned together, everything they’d nearly had.

Jordan, however, looks somewhere beyond Henry, so very nearly swallowed up by loss. “I need to warn Cameron– they’re–”

_Look at me._

There are always options. Henry holds him steady and Jordan seems to understand the intrusion. Its necessity, too.

_We need to go as soon as you’re healed. There’s no time to tell Cameron._

And it’s then Jordan flinches, struggles in Henry’s grip until he falls back into the blanket of snow that’s grown around them, his singular eye – and the ice around the other one has just now begun to take shape – gone wide. “What did you do– Henry, what did you _do_ to Cameron?” he manages but there’s not much fight left in him, drowned out by a sudden despair. In fact, the very words seem to have taken everything he’s got.

“Nothing.” Henry shakes his head, wincing as he picks himself up and jostles his shoulder in the process. “Jordan, Cameron’s safe. _We_ need to go. I don’t know who else made it out but we’ve won before, we’ll win again. Isn’t that right, old friend?” He even tries for a smile. It’s not especially convincing.

For the longest time, here and now, Jordan merely stares up into the cold and the dark. At last, he nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT TO WORRY. as soon as jordan healed, henry [redacted] him ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sportsmaster/Icicle + ISA - OBLIVIOUS -"What does Crusher have to do to make Jordan understand what he wants? After dropping numerous hints, Crusher decides that subtlety is not his style." [BONUS POINTS: The other ISA members thoughts during Crusher's prowl. Amused Paula, Haughty Henry (He's been dropping hints for YEARS and all this blonde lunk has to do is flex, dafuq!?!?!?!! and a reluctant Ito who unwittingly gets caught up in it all]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i give you SPORTCICLE: ORIGINS

“I’m just saying, babe, if I died I’d want you to be gettin’ it on, y’know?” Larry says, momentarily muffled underneath the resounding crack of the nose he’s just broken. Councilman Spencer’s face, meet bat.

Guaranteeing William Zarick’s reelection is the work of minutes, _playing_ with the would-be candidates– well, Larry can go all night. Steven’s even agreed to watch the kid, on the one condition that Artemis refrains from pulling on Juniper’s tail. Repeating last time’s unpleasantness, and both cat and girl had been firmly at odds with each other then, would supposedly result in a lifetime ban from the Sharpe household. It’s hard to tell whether Larry minds.

“Yeah but you’re… _you_ ,” Paula helpfully offers, hypnotising in full Tigress regalia, as she delivers a roundhouse kick to the councilman’s gut. It’s their third in two nights and particularly pathetic, if the whimpering’s anything to go by. “It’s been, what, three years? Jordan’s probably still moping around. He’s one of those.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Someone’s gotta step up and–” Their target’s started sniffling through the usual promises of _please, I’ll do anything_ and other sob stories. Larry’s heard it all before. “Do you mind? I’m trying to have a conversation here, pal!” He nods to Paula and finds that the crossbow does a more than sufficient job of shutting up the councilman.

Playtime’s over sooner than intended.

“God, that always gets me going,” Larry laughs and wraps an arm around Paula while he’s at it, relishing in her answering smile.

—

For the most part, he lets it simmer. There’s missed opportunities every now and again, vague frustration when lingering hands and obvious glances lead nowhere but, ultimately, fact of the matter is that Larry always gets what he’s gunning for. It’s that simple.

Couple weeks after Paula encourages him to keep at it, not that he’s in dire need of the reassurance, Larry finds his footing.

He’s been patient enough, he thinks, well accustomed to stalking his prey.

“Larry, you’re– very early,” Jordan remarks, shuffling whatever paperwork he’d been working on a couple more times than would be deemed strictly necessary. He’s looking right at home in the here and now, all immaculate in his suit and tie, sat at the table that takes up the vast majority of the ISA meeting room. Very little of the damp and drafty tunnels reaches them.

“You know me, love them meetings.” Larry’s grinning wide, shark-like and nearly giddy with a manic sense of victory. “And hey, call me Crusher.”

“Right.” Jordan nods. “Crusher.”

Dissatisfied with the art of subtlety, Larry helps himself to a seat right next to Jordan, dragging the chair along until there’s barely any space left between them. That’s more like it. “Listen, Icy, I think you know we gotta talk,” he says, amicably sing-song.

Perplexingly, Jordan stiffens, rigid like he’s bracing himself for a blow. Something to look into, then. Larry keeps on smiling. “If this is about Cameron drawing Artemis with horns, I don’t know what that’s about and I had a talk with him but, Lar– _Crusher_ , they’re in the second grade and it’s hard to explain these–”

“What? No!” Larry chuckles, shaking his head as he places a firm hand on Jordan’s knee. “Slow down there, bud,” he adds, bizarrely fascinated by the sting of ice underneath his palm.

“Oh.”

The cold, against reason, faintly recedes. If it’s emotion that gets Jordan freezing up, he’s willing to see what else he can inspire in him. “You know ol’ Crusher’s here for ya, right?” He rubs at Jordan’s knee as he meets his eyes – blue on blue, though Larry’s bright with glee. “Say, if you’ve been feeling lonely lately, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Jordan, carrying all the allure of a cornered animal, looks down at Larry’s hand like he’s seeing it for the first time. He tries for a smile, though the act’s always looked painful on him. “I guess–”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, listen, buddy, I just gotta tell you,” Larry starts, exceedingly indulgent in the way he’s managed to scoot even closer, “you don’t look good. I’m thinkin’ a trip to Ripped City would really work wonders on you. Get those muscles moving, right? I know a good workout always cheers _me_ up.”

And maybe Larry’s got a different kind of workout in mind but he doesn’t let the thought deter him. The gym’s win is his, too. Then again, he’s sure he’s got Jordan all the same.

“I’ll, um, think about it,” Jordan allows and as he makes to stand up, Larry grabs his wrist. It’s a loose hold, functionally mild in the grand scheme of things. The glint in Larry’s eyes is anything but. There’s more Sportsmaster than Larry Crock in the way he’s holding himself, the predatory quirk of his smile – rarely glimpsed beneath the mask.

“Or, and here’s an idea, I could make your mind up for you.” Out in the field, it might very well be a threat. Here, Larry merely tilts his head, perfectly genuine.

—

Jordan’s sitting on the table right in the middle of the ISA headquarters, legs spread wide to accommodate Larry standing between them. His hair’s a mess. “The meeting’s gonna start soon,” Jordan whispers, visibly breathless as he grips at Larry’s shoulder, fingers digging in when he’s rewarded with a kiss high up on his neck.

“C’mon, bud, we’re all friends here,” says Larry, grinning wide, as he steps back just enough to get a good look at Jordan and whistles. “Whoa, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

There’s patches of ice here and there, skin curiously gone crystalline where – Larry assumes – Jordan might ordinarily be flushed. If _he’s_ finding it difficult to maintain eye contact, Larry’s got no such problems. He pulls him by his undone tie into a rough kiss, breathes some life into the frozen landscape of Jordan. It’s not too long until they part, Jordan’s lips gone all red. A moan escapes him when Larry offers a hand to grind into where he’s straining against the fabric of his pants. “Just what you needed, huh?” Larry asks, though he’s got an inkling of the answer already.

It’s then Jordan flinches at the not-so-distant conversation drifting through the tunnels. “Crusher, we need to– _stop_. We need to stop,” he gasps out and he certainly reaches for Larry’s hand, a valiant effort when he’s sounding like it’s taken everything he’s got to give, but merely holds it in place, unwilling to let go.

Larry laughs, gleefully manic, and lets Jordan rock against him for a moment longer, considers unzipping him just as Dr. Ito steps through the door.

“Spoilsport,” he remarks, thoroughly amused.

Feeling especially generous, Larry even helps Jordan off the table, stealing one last kiss in the process. “You should come over! My turn to cook tonight and Paula says I do a _mean_ grilled salmon,” Larry adds, perfectly casual.

There’s little Jordan can do but nod, eyes fixed on their arriving teammates.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sportsmaster/Icicle + Brainwave/Sportsmaster - DUALITY - "Henry accidentally catches Jordan and Crusher in the throes of passion.... and to his utter disgust can't stop thinking about being in Jordan's place" - [Voyeurism, Sexual Fantasy. BONUS POINTS: feelings of repulsive arousal + Crusher finding out when Henry accidentally shares a memory]"

It starts underneath the offices of Blue Valley’s most vital company. The tunnels are built to prevent communication with the outside world, a taste of Dr. Ito’s glory days. In all honesty, Henry likes what they’ve all come to call _the dungeon_ , there are no blinding headaches amongst dimly lit candles and mindless henchmen, no stray, suffocating thoughts of strangers passing by.

And yet, on his way back from a second glimpse at a machine decades in the making, Henry hears it loud and clear.

_Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god, no, what if Barbara–_

He can’t tell what keeps him rooted to the spot. Familiarity, after a fashion – not the words but, rather, the man behind them, the accent clinging even after a lifetime on present shores. It drifts from above, a steady rhythm of guilt. Henry’s unused to the flash of anger at the notion, though there’s little else Jordan’s ridiculous crush on a married woman has inspired in him. They’ve given up too much to stop now, _Henry_ has– wounds still too fresh to dwell on.

Instead, with the passage to the American Dream just around the corner, Henry sinks into direct action. He’s not expecting much, if anything beyond the realms of a couple doubts and petty concerns, as if Jordan has only now gained an acute knowledge of the very consequences they’ve spent years hashing out.

Past a false wall and up the stairs, Henry finds it difficult to believe his initial diagnosis. It’s not distress, he understands, a healthy measure of trepidation caught in this dawning realisation.

The building creaks as it settles around its only after-hours occupants and at a closer glance, the glass doors to Jordan’s office are all frosted over. Struggling to accept his fate, Henry grabs the handle – sleeve over his hand, necessary protection against the cold; steps in and sincerely wishes to redo the last minute of his life. He should’ve knocked, it seems clear now.

Too little, too late.

There’s ice spider-webbing across Jordan’s face, crystalline cracks in his skin where sweat might ordinarily sit. In fact, he’s flushed a faint blue down to his shirt collar with the sole exception of his kiss-red lips, slightly parted to allow a frozen breath to pass through. None other than Larry Crock grips at his bare hips. The desk shakes with every thrust.

Papers, various knick-knacks and the odd assortments of souvenirs from Jordan’s travels litter the floor. Engaged in this balancing act, and Jordan’s only halfway perched on the desk as Larry holds him up for easy access, neither immediately notices Henry. It’s something of a blessing. He could leave, he thinks, hysterical. There’s no accounting for the way his cock stirs in his pants at the sight, the fact that he can’t tear his eyes away. Jordan moans like it’s wrenched out of him, punched-out gasps when Larry rocks into him. He’s _loud_. Henry’s never heard him like this, certainly not with him.

“C’mon, bud, I’ve gotcha, just gotta hold on a little longer,” Larry says and Henry can’t see it but he can hear the grin in his voice, the predatory mania that’s always close at hand, bloodhound and shark all at once. “Don’tcha wanna put on a show for our guest?”

And maybe Henry’s not been nearly as careful as he’d thought. Jordan’s eyes snap open, he sits up just enough to clutch at Larry’s arm, stilling him in the process.

No need to read his mind, it’s all plain to see.

Hints of drastic embarrassment, even as he clenches around Larry without meaning to. “Henry! Henry, I’m– I thought–” Relief, too. “God, I thought you were Barbara.”

Henry hates that it fails to diminish his arousal in any significant way. _Well, I thought you were in trouble_ is what he doesn’t say. In hindsight, it strikes him as ridiculous. Some part of him must’ve known all along, deeply buried as it had been. “Would you have preferred it?” he asks, determined to hold his own against reason, and doesn’t miss the way Jordan’s cock jerks at that.

If there’s any tension, it doesn’t last long. Larry’s laughing, belly-deep and downright gleeful, and he bats Jordan’s hand away as he reaches for his own cock. “Nuh-uh, you didn’t answer Brainy’s question, y’know,” he remarks, giving a few lazy thrusts to sweeten the deal.

“ _Crusher_ ,” Jordan gasps out, sounding thoroughly wrecked.

It’s hard to tell what Henry’s meant to do with himself. Half-tempted to slink off into the tunnels, he watches as Larry pulls out, manages to tune out the vast majority of Jordan’s incoherent thoughts other than the low whine that makes it past his lips. Larry, and Henry refuses to risk a glance down at his dick, merely switches positions with practised ease. “Keep ‘em legs spread, Mahkent,” he says, all the same enthusiasm of a seasoned gym instructor, as he bends Jordan over the desk and presses back into him. “You want in, Henry?”

At Larry’s wink, the simple delight in his too blue eyes, Henry shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he decides and wisely doesn’t mention that he doesn’t know _what_ he’d like in, exactly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Icicle/Sportsmaster/Brainwave + Sportsmaster/Pat Dugan - MEMBERSHIP DRIVE - "Crusher casually mentions adding another to the Polycule. Henry and Jordan are alarmed when they learn he's set his sights on Pat Dugan." [BONUS POINTS: a "Him!?" moment]"

There’s a light dusting of snow tracing the contours of Jordan’s prone body, a chalk outline of his afterglow melting into the sheets at an aggravating pace. Larry is pressed up close and Jordan feels that he’s drowning in the heat of him, sticky where Larry’s got a leg thrown over his, skin-to-skin and furnace-hot. It’s very nearly nice. Jordan doesn’t often get _nice_.

“Are you writing your name?” he finds himself asking, glancing down at the idle shapes Larry traces across the sheen of ice on his chest.

“He’s drawing a penis,” Henry offers, perfectly collected, from where he’s putting on his turtleneck in the corner, wading slowly through a haphazard pile of discarded clothes. Henry’s never been much of a cuddler and Jordan, unable to account for his own ability to move at the present moment, can’t begrudge him. He does, however, make a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

Larry huffs out a laugh, jostling Jordan while he’s at it. “Ruin the surprise, would ya?” He mouths wetly at Jordan’s neck, no rhyme or reason to the shudder _that_ provokes, and it’s easy to see he’d be willing to go again, Larry always is.

For his part, Jordan tries his best not to consider it, halfway interested as he might be despite himself. Instead, crumbling resolve and all, he summons the presence of mind to wipe at Larry’s crude drawing and shoot Henry a smile – it’s meant to be a grateful one, though Jordan suspects he falls short of it. He stretches, languid, satisfyingly sore and relieved he’s yet to suffer his usual fate of shattered pieces at Larry’s hands. Henry objects to the cold, contemplates the dangers rather than the thrills. It might’ve helped.

It doesn’t take long for him to grow accustomed to the biting little kisses along the length of his neck. By the time Henry’s dressed and mostly engaged in a thorough search for his glasses, Jordan’s got his head tilted just enough to encourage Larry. It’s not a conscious effort, he wouldn’t _like_ it to be, but it’s all he’s got in matters of explanations for the way he whines when Larry sits up. An abrupt, absurd movement. Jordan instantly misses the warmth of him.

“Say, there’s this guy I know, right? Total hot shot and I mean, _hot_. He’s got a thing for cars an’ all that,” Larry starts, purely conversational like he’s not naked and half hard, amicably tangled in the sheets alongside Jordan. “Real vibe to him, I just know it. I’ve got him coming to Ripped City, y’know, cover all bases.”

Jordan and Henry take the opportunity to exchange a look. It’s a testament to lifelong friendships, more so than any trace of Henry’s powers, rendered redundant when confusion reigns.

“He reminds me of–” Larry takes a moment to think on that. “The cowboy from _Night at the Museum_?”

There’s a sort of collective sigh going around. Henry, pinching the bridge of his nose, manages to say, “You think the cowboy from _Night at the Museum_ is hot…?” The question hangs in the air, tainted by disdain. Jordan entertains the idea of a shower.

“C’mon, Brainy,” and Larry’s grinning wide, bright-eyed, “no need to lie to yourself. Yeah, duh, the cowboy’s smokin’ hot. Anyway, listen, I was thinking we could get my pal a piece of the action? Lemme tell you, Pat looks like the kinda guy who’s aching for this kinda thing, I betcha he’d want in. Come to think of it, you might know him actually. Pat Dugan?”

And Jordan chokes on nothing but air. Once he’s done coughing, tinted blue with the creeping cold, he eyes Henry with a measure of betrayal, unaided in what’s clearly been a medical emergency. “Pat Dugan?” he asks, just on the edge of scandalised. “Barbara’s husband? _That_ Pat Dugan?”

“See, you get it, bud!” Larry claps him on the back, hardly helpful. “If Pat’s in, who’s to say Barbara won’t be too, right?”

“Not that _woman_ again,” Henry mutters, unwilling witness to Jordan’s thoughts.

It’s bound to be a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Icicle/Brainwave, Christine/Jordan or Barbara/Jordan - HER - "Henry uses his hologram ability so that Jordan could pretend, at least for a little while." [Hurt/Comfort because Jordan angst is just too delicious. How does he choose between a dead woman and a woman who doesn't want him. Does he request both? What does Henry feel?]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfortunately this sorta strays from the prompt because i couldn't exactly see henry ever being particularly comforting outside of, say, some sorta immediate crisis. he IS the same dude who killed his family after all, regardless of initial intention. SO, INSTEAD, YOU GET LOTS OF HURT AND VERY LITTLE COMFORT. HOPE IT'S STILL ENJOYABLE (EXCUSE JORDAN SIMPING)

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

Henry stands by the window, gazing primly into the darkened yard where Christine’s garden had once laid. They’re used to pulling late nights, discussing the intricacies of _Project: New America_ and, more recently, what’s to follow. Jordan hadn’t even realised he’d zoned out, tense with something not unlike trepidation coiled tight around him. He’s startled into the present, pushed to rest a hand on Henry’s shoulder in silent apology.

“No, no, Henry, of course not.” Until Dr. Ito is satisfied with his finishing touches on the machine, there’s still life to sink into, work trips and paperwork and– Barbara. On the cusp of greatness, Jordan feels no relief. “There’s just a lot on my mind,” he admits.

At that, Henry turns to face Jordan and quirks an eyebrow. There’s heat in his eyes and the faintest sketch of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, as if he’s plucked at Jordan’s thoughts one by one, analysed them in turn and seen them for what they are. All the doubts, the fear of how Barbara might fare in an upcoming utopia, whether it’s all been worth it. To a lesser extent, it’s the kind of look Jordan’s used to seeing from Larry Crock, the predatory undercurrent of confidence. It’s not unwelcome, Jordan stirs despite himself.

“Is there something you want?” Henry asks, all polite detachment. He must know. Jordan does, too, and he can’t help the distinct impression that Henry looms somewhere above him, sharp angles and shadows. With Henry’s memories back, there’s been no illusions about who _Jordan_ considers the leader of the ISA, how it’s been the same game for decades.

When one had faltered, the other had always been there to pick up the pieces. The arrangement fits them well, personal apocalypses never too far off.

That’s how Jordan ends up pressed against the wall, suit pants hanging open and one hand clutching the window sill. Henry, at no one’s mercy, kneels on his own accord.

_You’re still thinking of her._

Jordan flinches back and bangs his head against the wall in the process, chronically unused to the intrusion in his own mind, the way Henry barges in with little regard for what he might find. He closes his eyes against the shock of pain, though the narrow constraints of it evaporate in a haze of arousal as Henry licks at him, downright methodical.

If Henry thinks distraction might alleviate the weight on his shoulders, Jordan’s not complaining. The glint of ice on his cheeks speaks volumes as it is, flushed in the only way he can be.

And yet, caught in the intoxicating heat of Henry’s mouth, Jordan fails to lose himself in the motion. It’s pathetic, his mind’s insistence on returning to Barbara, the life they could lead in a world Jordan’s managed to save. Christine would approve, he thinks– hopes. Despairs. The loss always flares up.

_You miss her._

Heaps of disdain don’t make it any less true. Jordan gasps as Henry pulls back. There he is, cock hard and leaking, and Henry merely _looks_ at him. Jordan squirms, nearly gives in to the urge to apologise before he’s stopped by the vague tendrils of Henry’s powers inching into his consciousness. Henry changes– no, some part of Jordan understands how this works, the _sight_ of Henry changes, shifts until he’s left with–

Christine.

Jordan stares, wide-eyed, and sees the icy puff of his own breath, hears the way he’s heading straight for panic. Henry’s done it before, never to him. The gap between the knowledge and the reality stretches with no end in sight. Distantly, he notes the cold creeping down.

“Too soon?” comes Christine’s voice and it _is_ her, not the hoarse whispers of her last days.

Again, the mirage shifts. Jordan blinks and it’s Barbara he’s looking at, lipstick smudged and blonde hair in disarray. It’s easy to see what Henry is implying, harder to deny the heat pooling low in his stomach. Jordan wouldn’t– he would never ask this of Barbara, has never allowed himself to imagine it. The reverse, maybe. He likes to think he’d do anything Barbara wanted, he’d certainly go down on his knees. All the same, _this_ isn’t rightand he knows enough about himself to stop Henry as he leans close.

“Is this your idea of a joke? I’ve had _enough_ , Henry,” Jordan chokes out and an accidental glance at his hands reveals he’s frozen all over.

When Henry stands up, he’s returned to form. In fact, he looks thoroughly fascinated by Jordan’s distress as he adjusts his glasses, like it’s been nothing more than one of his experiments. He steps too close as he makes to tuck Jordan back into his briefs and zip him up, lets every touch linger while he’s at it. “Maybe Barbara Whitmore isn’t what you want,” he remarks, “no need to question the project for _her_.”

It seems Henry’s accomplished his goals for the evening.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Not previous anon but like, that ask was too powerful. Update to Paula: Spit Roasting Jordan is in progress but Henry refuses to commit to Eiffel Tower move. Honey help?! It's just a high five?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT EXACTLY A PROMPT BUT THAT ASK KNOCKED ME OUT SO I HAD TO DO SOMETHING. ENJOY?

“Aw, bud, c’mon, it’s just a high-five! And don’t hit me with one of those,” and here, Larry’s voice drops to a monotone before it resumes its elated mania, “ _I don’t know where you’ve been, Lawrence_ ‘cause you know exactly where I’ve been!”

Henry sighs, would presumably even go as far as to pinch the bridge of his nose if his hands weren’t otherwise occupied at the present moment. “The fact that I know _precisely_ where you’ve been is the exact reason I don’t want to high-five you,” he explains, gathering any and all remnants of patience that might’ve stuck around since his less-than-distinguished guests have arrived. “Regardless, I’ve never, ah, called you _Lawrence_ ,” he adds, potentially willing to prolong his own release in the service of proving a point.

“You won’t call me Crusher either,” Larry remarks.

For approximately two whole seconds, he manages the amazing feat of looking downright mournful – a testament to his dedication to the cause of annoying Henry into storming out of his own house, one can only assume.

It doesn’t take long for Larry to break into another grin though, blue eyes shining with amusement at Henry’s reluctance, Jordan’s muffled sounds where he’s stretched out between them and taking it all so well. It’s required some talking into, this whole affair. Larry prides himself on his resourcefulness.

There’s an undeniable novelty, to the position but to Jordan, too.

He’s _flushed_ , sweaty when Larry’s tangling a hand in his hair and pulling him close, cock sinking into the warmth of his mouth. The lack of ice is a first and Jordan’s tense with it, keeping the cold at bay like Henry had asked him to. Larry can see the toll it’s taking on him, the glassy eyes and the way he’s just aching to freeze over, displeased with the heat of his own body. It must be deceptively unfamiliar, Larry thinks as he swipes a thumb along Jordan’s bottom lip and dips in right next to the length of his cock. “You like that, huh?” he says, breathy, and his smile’s all teeth.

Fact of the matter is that Jordan’s moan, stifled where he’s got a mouthful of his _ol’ pal Crusher_ , and the frantic way he rocks back into Henry’s thrusts can’t strike Larry as anything other than blood in the water. “Betcha you could take us both, if you really put your mind to it. Whaddya say, bud? What if Brainy here wants to join in?”

At that, Larry tightens his hold on Jordan’s hair and keeps him in place until he’s squirming, until there’s the telltale sound of cracking ice and the sheen of snow dusting his cheeks, burying the strangeness of his blush. Then, and only then, does he ease back. “I’m gonna need you to use your words, Icy,” Larry adds, not unkind. He spares a glance for Henry, who’s methodical even when he’s gripping harshly at Jordan’s hips and fucking into him.

“I told you I don’t like the ice,” Henry bites back, interrupts a certain someone’s pathetic little attempts at a _no_ , but whatever frustration he’s harbouring against Larry, he’s certainly taking out on Jordan. “If he freezes, it’s all on you.”

“Yeah, no shit, I’m just tryin’ to make sure he doesn’t– I don’t know. Overheat or something.” Larry’s laughing though, well-aware his argument barely holds up and long past caring. He brushes Jordan’s hair off his forehead, delighted by the twinge of cold underneath his fingertips. If nothing else, Jordan’s certainly grown more pliant, less strained with the effort. “See? You _should_ high-five me, I practically saved his life!”

Jordan’s manages something that can’t be too far off from _I’m right here_ – disregarded in the line of duty.

“You prepared him and now he’s drooling all over you,” Henry points out, very nearly in the vicinity of haughty, “I’m not high-fiving you, Larry.” He, too, keeps his powers in check, though it’s less discomfort and more of a practical need not to intrude on Larry’s thoughts.

“C’mon, baby, just once?”

“Don’t call me–”

It occurs to Larry, grinning bright and open, that he knows exactly how to sweeten the deal. Jordan’s gasping around him, no doubt emboldened by Henry’s exasperation and the quick, short thrusts he’s fallen into. “Okay, how ‘bout you gimme one high-five and I shut up ‘till we’re done?”

Henry’s fallen for Larry’s promises – perpetually on the sketchy side – before but he still reaches across and high-fives him, hesitant as far as the act goes. It doesn’t deter Larry in the least.

“Alright then, bud! Alright!” he cheers, accompanied by a loud whoop.

—

“Yeah, uh-huh, uh-huh, honey, listen– Yeah! We did it!” Larry’s sitting just on the edge of Henry’s king-size bed, enthusiasm spilling over as he gives Paula the good news, Jordan’s phone pressed to his ear and not wearing much at all. “My phone’s dead, babe, yeah, but we totally Eiffel Towered. Right? I didn’t think he’d go for it either!”

Jordan, self-preservation having kicked in somewhere along the line and now partially gone ice-blue, shoots Henry an incomprehensible look. “What’s he talking about?” he prompts, hoarse after everything his throat’s gone through, star-fished across the vast majority of the bed.

“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it,” Henry offers and sighs.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Icicle/Brainwave - FIRST TIME - "Late night reminiscing about their late wives leads to something more..." [nsfw or maybe a seduction that gets softly rebuffed (the angst potential of it allll!) [How long have their wives been gone? Late night in the ISA headquarters, or at a house? Maybe after a bit too much wine? Who approaches who?]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BRAINFREEZE: ORIGINS

Jordan starts crying on the first glass of the second bottle of wine Henry’s graciously surrendered this evening. He doesn’t _mean_ to. It’s not a terribly dignified sight: tie undone, left to hang listlessly around his neck – a noose, on a braver man – and bespoke suit irreparably crinkled where he’s curled up on the leather couch, knees drawn tight to his chest. The tears sting and refuse to freeze, another one of tonight’s cruel tricks, and leave him with red, puffy eyes. Thoroughly exhausted, in the wrong light.

“Does– does it ever get better… ?” he chokes out, brushes a few strands of blond hair off his forehead with shaking fingers. Finding his own face warm to the touch, Jordan shudders through another sob. The cold, as of now, seems mostly localised in his chest, weighing heavy like grief.

Five years after the untimely demise of his own happily-ever-rafter, Henry simply offers, “No.”

It’s downright dignified.

As it happens, Henry’s sitting some distance away, having exiled himself to the far end of the couch around the same time Jordan had started bawling into his wine, and he maintains a superior air of sobriety in the face of unaccountable hysterics. Maybe he’s an old hand at this, maybe he’s got nothing like heartache cutting deep. Jordan doesn’t know.

“No?” he echoes, squinting at Henry through a fresh barrage of tears. They _do_ freeze now, dropping into his glass like miniature ice cubes, each leaving a little splash in its wake. Jordan doesn’t fight the urge to apologise. In fact, the cold’s spread throughout his body, like the utter confusion at Henry’s negative answer has managed to break something open. Discontent with the frozen puff of his own breath and displeased without, Jordan merely gives way to another sob, tearing open a couple more shirt buttons in a desperate bid for air. “I just– I miss her so much,” he starts, breathless, “and– and _Cameron_ misses her and– it’s been three years, Henry. I thought I could– by now–”

“Don’t do that, please.”

Jordan freezes in every way he’s capable of and looks where Henry’s pointing. Ice spider-webs over the wine glass, no doubt likely to crack as it spreads. It wouldn’t be the first time.

In the interest of avoiding disaster, Henry sacrifices his vantage point in favour of taking Jordan’s glass and placing it on the coffee table. The movement brings him up-close and personal. Jordan stares, uncomprehending in his agony, and maybe the wine’s gotten to his head but all at once, he can’t see the new life he’d pictured in Blue Valley beyond the loss. Christine had always been part of the plan.

“No, Jordan, it doesn’t get better,” Henry says, calm and forceful in this firm belief, “but you learn to live with it. Whatever guilt you have, it stays there and it festers. Our chance to move on _is_ the project, that’s the only way you can justify what you’ve–”

“But I didn’t–” _kill Christine_ is what Jordan doesn’t say. He opens his mouth and closes it, stunned into silence. The tears have even stopped. It’s then he understands Henry has to be talking about himself. He hasn’t forgiven what he’d done to Merry. In retrospect, it seems obvious and Jordan regrets his own negligence.

In what must be either a spark of genius or a fit of damning stupidity, Jordan closes the gap between them and presses his lips against Henry’s. For the longest time, Henry fails to move. He’s warm against Jordan and wonderfully familiar. In a manner of speaking, it’s been a long time coming. Jordan’s thought of it before but never once like this, never accompanied by the reality of Henry’s cologne and the taste of wine and the odd fragility of his thin body where Jordan wraps his arms around him. Heart in his throat, he waits for any signs of life and hopes against hope that he hasn’t ruined a lifelong friendship.

[A month ago](https://ufonaut.tumblr.com/post/628648102941851648/sportsmastericicle-isa-oblivious-what-does), Larry Crock had done a fine job of distracting him. Now that the possibility has occurred to Jordan, he’d quite like to do the same for Henry. It would benefit them both, he’s sure.

Instead, and it’s not like any part of this evening’s gone like expected, Jordan gets halfway through _I’m sorry, I can explain_ before Henry’s gingerly taking off his glasses and blazer and pulling Jordan back in. Clumsy with disuse, Henry kisses like he’s starved for it. Jordan is, too.

That’s how they end up spread out on the couch, Henry pressing down on Jordan, making out like they’re teenagers and not the would-be architects of a new world on the wrong side of thirty, like Jordan hasn’t spent the past half hour crying over the wife he’s lost to something as petty as greed and politics, like the vast majority of his face doesn’t still carry the remnants of snot and tears. He’s missed this kind of intimacy, even if it’s got nothing on the way Larry had simply _known_ what he’d needed. It’s different with Henry and Jordan doesn’t mind different.

“I am never letting you get drunk in my house again,” Henry breathes out against Jordan’s lips, not especially impressed by the way he’s flushed a faint blue down to his chest, fragments of ice here and there. In response, Jordan merely kisses him again, barely aware he’s gotten hard somewhere along the line until Henry reaches down and palms him roughly through the fabric of his pants.

He hadn’t– he hadn’t thought it would go this far.

Jordan manages a broken moan, clutching at any part of Henry he can reach, suddenly frantic with the warmth, the sheer closeness. “I want…” he starts and stops, unsure of where he stands, what he even _wants_. Mostly, Jordan’s cock strains against his pants as Henry keeps palming at it, tracing the shape of him from root to tip with no intention of really getting his hand around him, reluctantly drinking in the sounds of Jordan’s pleasure. It’s pathetic, how close he already is. The whole mess of it keeps swirling around his head and Henry _must_ sense it, this wine-drunk despair. He misses Christine, he’s almost glad to have Henry here. It all strikes Jordan as ridiculous.

_I **can** sense it._

And Jordan jerks against Henry, hard and leaking and effectively trapped, grinding on anything Henry provides despite himself.

_Just let go, Jordan. I can’t be mad at you when you’re so–_

He looks up, hazy but wide-eyed, pleading for something he can’t place and finds no words for.

_Pathetic._

That, inexplicably, does it. Jordan comes in a blinding rush with a stifled sob, face buried in the crook of Henry’s neck, rocking his hips against the movement of his hand well into the shock of over-sensitivity. Then, at last, Jordan lets go and Henry pulls back.

“Thank you, old friend,” he whispers, profoundly embarrassed, as he brushes off the few stray snowflakes that had manifested where he’d been grabbing Henry. On a second thought, once he musters the presence of mind to move, Jordan even attempts a halfhearted motion to get down on his knees. It’s Henry who stops him, gentler than imagined.

“Just sleep it off,” Henry says, shaking his head, nearly disappointed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel in Stargirl we never saw Larry’s vulnerable side! Perhaps Larry being comforted by Jordan and/or Pat.. via sex? ;)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as vulnerable as larry ever gets babey

Jordan’s grown resigned to spending his evening buried neck-deep in late-night paperwork and the tragic remnants of any hopes and dreams of making it home before midnight. By now, he’s even reached a self-appointed break and he’s got his phone in hand – halfway engaged in a conversation with Cameron that’s managed to stretch long past what’s conductive to waking up in time for school tomorrow – when a call comes up on the screen. Jordan freezes, in more ways than one, and can’t find it in himself to understand what he’s seeing.

 _Crusher Crock_ is what the display reads, accompanied by a picture of–

Well.

It occurs to Jordan, somewhere underneath the rush of blood in his ears and the ice spreading underneath his fingertips, that Larry must’ve changed his contact picture while he’d been otherwise occupied during one of their more recent… _encounters_. That’s the best explanation Jordan’s got for the fact that he’s staring at Larry’s dick, eternally grateful to be alone at this exact moment. A little frustrated to recognise it on sight, too.

“Larry, hi!” Jordan says the same instant he decides to answer, habitually forced into phone-appropriate cheerfulness. It might be the office that’s encouraging him. “Is everything okay?”

For one thing, Larry’s never once called him, Jordan knows that much. News of his exploits are usually conveyed by a simple _The Gym Rats are at it again_ courtesy of Anaya Bowin or other interested parties. He doesn’t expect Larry to sound downright distraught either, that’s enough to get Jordan moving.

—

In fact, it’s enough to carry Jordan through picking up an inexplicable takeout order, like this is the kind of thing they just _do_ , and all the way to Larry’s doorstep. He knocks once. Twice. Three times. Anxious with the delay, Jordan tries the door, finds it unlocked and steps in. The house remains dark, especially intimidating in the absence of moonlight. It’s not the first time Jordan’s gotten the distinct impression of being Larry’s _prey_ , just the first time it’s happened without the mania in those too blue eyes fixed on him.

“It’s Jordan?” he calls out. “Jordan Mahkent?”

As per a night that’s already gone well into the bizarre, Jordan immediately proceeds to trip over a baseball bat that’s been abandoned in the hallway – a permanent fixture of the Crock household, no doubt – and lose the fight with gravity. No one’s more surprised than _he_ is when he fails to smash his face into anything in particular and, instead, ends up in Larry’s arms. At some point or another, he’s emerged from the shadows. Just in time, if Jordan’s got any say in the matter.

“Whoa, easy there, bud!” Larry exclaims and for a fraction of a second, his easy grin slips back into place, delighted at the sight of Jordan. If he’s surprised to see him, he gives no real indication, lets Jordan dust himself off in peace and even turns the lights on as he makes it back to the living room and the couch he’d been lounging on.

In the dark.

Surrounded by, as Jordan can now see, bits and pieces of the Sportsmaster suit. Notably, the mask gazes up menacingly from the coffee table.

“What happened?” Jordan asks, setting down his paper bag next to the hockey mask. It’s hard to tell whether food had been a good idea, harder still to gauge Larry’s mood. Jordan’s already taken off his coat when the belated realisation that there’s nowhere to put it hits. In the end, he leaves it over the back of the nearest chair and joins Larry on the couch.

There’s a momentous interlude of silence.

As present circumstances would have it, the lack of eye contact is concerning enough. Larry _never_ hesitates. He’s all in, always has been.

And yet, with his hand now gripping Jordan’s knee, it takes him another minute to come around. “She lost,” Larry says, plain and simple. It’s the same thing he’d said on the phone but Jordan’s yet to uncover its meaning. “She lost to the _goddamn_ Civic City Atoms! The Atoms, Icy! The one team in this freakin’ world that’s named after the little guy from the JSA! Who names a team after him? Who even _remembers_ the Atom?”

Jordan, in all honesty, doesn’t. Not really, at any rate. His once-encyclopaedic knowledge of the JSA has been gathering dust for some years now and the Atom hadn’t been on the roster for decades now to begin with.

“Wait.” Jordan frowns, thinking it out. “You said you had an emergency because– Artemis lost a football game? I was at work, Larry!”

Looking unfazed, Larry gives Jordan a once-over and tilts his head.

It takes Jordan a minute.

“Crusher!” he agrees, indulgent, “I meant I was at work, _Crusher_.”

“Was that so hard, bud?” Larry laughs, patting Jordan’s knee and then, while he’s at it, a bit further up, too. “And yeah, duh, it’s an emergency. Paula took Art to train some more ‘cause they couldn’t sleep but I’m telling you, this is the first game she’s lost. It’s– Hell, it’s devastating. We all need some comfort, y’know. C’mon, of course you do, you’re all about this touchy-feely stuff, aren’tcha?”

It takes something of a valiant effort not to dwell on Larry’s definition of the sort of loss Jordan’s familiar with. Kindly, he lets it go.

Just this once.

The less-than-subtle touches, the empty house. Jordan knows what he’s being asked here and oddly enough, he doesn’t mind it. Not what he’d expected, sure, but even he’s got to admit it beats late nights at the American Dream. It’s the first time Larry’s bothered to take the first step, Jordan’s dangerously flattered. The fragments of Sportsmaster left laying around hardly hold him back and Jordan wonders whether Larry had been on the hunt, if that’s what’d had him craving– _this_. “So, um, what– what do you want?” Jordan asks. He clears his throat, loosens his tie just enough. The temperature’s already dropped a couple degrees.

Larry reaches out to cup Jordan’s face, thumb tracing the contours of his bottom lip, ice-cold already. “Whaddya say, baby? Can you go all frozen?” he asks but he’s kissing Jordan before he’s got any chance to answer, falling right into the usual push-and-pull, hands roaming all over. Larry’s as attentive as he is impulsive.

“Yeah, yeah, I can,” Jordan breathes out once he gets some air, patches of skin gone crystalline, cracking with ice as he goes down on his knees, a touch more eager than strictly necessary.

It’s always nice doing a friend a favour.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Author's Choice/Brainwave - WAKE UP CALL - "Henry King, usually characterized as an aloof man with judging eyes and a permanent frown, is surprisingly soft and open during sleep." [nsfw or general, if NSFW, maybe a little waking up action, and Henry being vocal and surprisingly vulnerable? Freckle appreciation?! Henry's not cuddly, maybe he passed out because his partner was JUST that powerful]"

Jordan’s first thought, stepping off the edge of a nearly pleasant dream, is that he’s late for work.

These days, he dictates his own schedule.

It’s a realisation that only comes belatedly, disappointingly so. By then, he’s already startled awake, perplexed by satin sheets and a nightstand that houses a pair of glasses and little else. He spends another minute engaged in this inanimate staring contest, hazy with lost sleep and an acute lack of familiarity.

Vaguely, Jordan notes a telltale soreness as he yawns and stretches. It’s nothing like what Larry’s left behind before, it gets ice climbing up his face all the same, too early in the morning to will it into what might ordinarily be an ardent blush. In fact, it’s the _absence_ of suffocating warmth on top of him or pressed up close behind – and that’s how any rare nights after-hours at the Crock house had always gone – that has last night flooding back in.

Henry.

Of course, they’d spent a late night putting the world to rights. Literally, in their case. More or less. Henry had been frustrated with the slow progress of the project, frustrated with some incident at the hospital involving what he’d classified as utter _incompetence_ and Jordan had offered the only comfort he’d ever known Henry to accept.

It had been– _intense_ , to say the least. Jordan’s never found himself on the wrong end of that trademarked Brainwave glare but he likes to think last night had proved too close for comfort. Permanently methodical, Henry’s every touch had reached far beyond deliberate, clutching at Jordan’s hips like he’d had something to prove. A hint more detached than usual, too, now that Jordan allows a moment to dwell on it. Henry hadn’t even endeavoured to touch his cock, though the lurid whispers in his mind had been enough to get Jordan off eventually, laying face-down as he’d been and rubbing against the bed with every thrust.

And if nothing else, it’s got him wide awake now, abruptly aware of the uncomfortable stickiness between his thighs and the reality that Henry had just– left him like that. He’s sure he’d thoroughly passed out at one point or another between Henry gasping out his own release, a shock of heat where he’d unthinkingly frozen all over, and the oddly soothing drone of the shower he had taken right after and neglected to invite Jordan into. It’s no excuse.

Somewhere along the line, he’s gotten used to Larry handling the clean up. Henry clearly doesn’t share the sentiment. To be offended would mean Jordan expects a certain degree of care, it’s merely a matter of habit.

Ultimately, content that there’s no real way to make more of a mess of Henry’s sheets than he already has, Jordan rolls over and ends up face-to-face with the man himself. The distance hardly seems finite, each curled up at opposite sides of the king-sized bed. Emboldened by remnants of the night, Jordan wants to slide closer, plaster himself against Henry’s side and see what else they can get up to until the day intervenes.

The _sight_ of Henry keeps him still. It’s not often Jordan sees him this relaxed, breathing softly in his green pyjamas – silk, stark contrast to Jordan’s bare skin and frozen flush. The dark circles around his eyes aren’t all gone but they’ve eased, as have the shadows that seem to cling during waking hours, the piercing intimidation he inspires. His hair is sleep-mussed, bizarrely soft-looking. It’s been too long since Jordan’s spent the night, he’s forgotten the momentarily burst of awe, the way it makes him long for something he’s never found the words for. In another life, maybe. He suspects last night might’ve had something to do with Merry, some anniversary or other and a dire need of distraction, but there’s no point to assuming.

Jordan does move closer then, though it’s become harder to tell what _he_ needs. Kissing Henry strikes him as an absurd little notion, though no less appealing because of it.

“Knock it off,” Henry mumbles, turning away from Jordan, eyes screwed shut against the morning. “You’re thinking too loud.”

It’s dangerously close to gentle, petty complaints steeped in intimacy.

They’ve spent so long together, torn apart so much of each other’s lives, Jordan wants– _Henry_ to want him. Instead, embarrassed with himself, Jordan gets up and cringes at all the sensations that provokes. He finds his phone on the floor, right by his hastily discarded briefs, and realises he’s got enough time to make it home and drive Cameron to school. It seems suddenly necessary, this taste of normalcy.

“Don’t use my things,” Henry, again, mumbles before he’s curling up tighter into himself and snoring softly, blissfully sinking into the comforts of a day off. It’s endearing right up until Jordan remembers he’s undoubtedly serious and unwilling to suffer any sort of brain-related death or injury in the approaching future, mourns the dashed hopes of a quick shower. He dresses quickly, wrinkled suit and all, runs his fingers through his hair to no avail and settles for the aftertaste of things he’d rather not analyse. Home isn’t too far, he’s lived through worse, he’s sure.

He _hopes_.

“Get some sleep, okay?” he says, sparing one last glance for Henry.

Jordan gets halfway down the stairs before he runs into today’s worst nightmare. There’s Hank, backpack slung over one shoulder, perfectly innocent in his varsity jacket and the distinct impression of a deer caught in headlights. Jordan knows he must look much the same. _Worse_ , in fact. Roughened-up – annihilated, if one doesn’t care to be polite – after the night he’s had, hair in utter disarray and an undone tie barely hanging around his neck, sporting a decidedly suspicious stain on his pants. His eyes, too, have gone very wide. Ice creeps up the back of his neck. Jordan can _feel_ it.

“Um, hey, Mr. Mahkent,” Hank manages, gaze darting up to where they’re both decidedly aware Henry’s bedroom is. “Are you– are you… okay?”

“No– Yes! I’m– _fine_ , Hank, thank you.” Jordan tries for a smile and it’s hardly ever been less convincing than just now. “How about I drive you to school? We can pick up Cameron on the way.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sportsmaster saving Jordan’s life.. perhaps post-season 1, and then proceeding to have more possessive sex with him?? 😅"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [takes place after my other post-finale drabble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185216/chapters/64093417)

It’s hard to place what wakes Jordan up. A creaking floorboard upstairs, maybe. Quick-fire footsteps. He comes to with a start and a full-body shiver, pushed into alertness by an acute ache that’s spread all over. Defeat holds no benefits, no matter how he thinks to dress up the gashes and wounds. All at once, the final fate of _Project: New America_ sits in his throat like grief. Jordan swallows past it in the interest of confusion.

These aren’t Blue Valley’s sparse, little woodlands. It’s not home, either. As a matter of fact, Jordan doesn’t know what to make of this unfinished basement and the two open fridges he’s propped up between. It’s plenty cold, downright comfortable, and yet it fails to explain why he’s been stripped down to his briefs or where Henry even–

Oh, god.

Jordan scrambles up on shaky legs. It becomes evident the ice has only just receded, leaving bruised flesh and the bitter aftertaste of failure behind. He seems whole enough, at least, and it certainly _feels_ like his body’s been working overtime to piece itself together. He’d never refuse a victory, however small.

“Henry?” he calls out, hoarse with how he must’ve been frozen for the past couple hours. Jordan tries not to cling to these _missing_ hours, knows that there’s little chance of defending himself in the here and now if worse comes to worst but his palms crack open with ice all the same, nearly painful when he’s got nothing more to give. It’s instinct, the panic of a cornered animal and the knowledge that if he’s lost too much already, he’s not about to give up his dearest friend without a fight.

Instead of the JSA or any number of threats his mind’s conjured up, it’s Larry who comes bounding down the stairs – he’s halfway to Sportsmaster, missing his mask and padded vest, though he makes up for it by bringing his bat along, easy confidence and an easier smile at the sight of Jordan, like nothing’s wrong at all.

“Kitty-cat got him good,” Larry says, in lieu of a greeting, and it takes Jordan a moment to realise he’s talking about Wildcat. He remembers Henry clutching at his shoulder, the trail of blood staining green leather. “Oh, don’t worry, bud, the painkillers just knocked him out. I let him have our bed and everything! Lemme tell ya, Paula’s gonna kill _me_ if he bleeds out on the good sheets, so, y’know, I made sure he’s alright.”

Inexplicably, and today’s – tonight? – all about that, Jordan breathes out, “Thank you.”

That’s relief right there, sharply humiliating. Caught in the cold comfort of familiarity, Jordan nearly falls apart with it. He wants to tell Larry about Barbara, about how he’d just wanted to help and he’s never– no one ever– he’s saved _nobody_ , has barely managed come out of the ruins of a would-be new world and how that hurts worse than the sting of two bruised eyes and the pain of quite literally pulling himself together. He says exactly nothing but Larry must catch some glimpse of it because he’s guiding Jordan up the stairs and on towards the living room couch, an arm wrapped tightly around his middle, startlingly helpful in the service of a balance yet to be regained.

At a glance, the Crock house seems strangely bare. Jordan can’t immediately tell what’s missing, though he sags into the couch gratefully, too far gone to care about his own nakedness.

“Paula took Art and skipped town,” Larry offers.

After a moment, he sits down, too. There’s traces of paint around his eyes, more remnants of Sportsmaster. Jordan likes the in-between, how starkly _blue_ Larry’s eyes are with the black smeared around them. It’s not the right place nor time. “Sharpe, if you’re wondering, took the coward’s way out. Thought you and Brainy did too actually! It’s why I was hunting you down,” Larry adds, unnecessarily close, “but then, well, I actually ran into good ol’ Henry on the edge of town and you’d already passed out by then. Thought I’d get you cooled down, pal. Worked wonders, huh?” He’s aimlessly rubbing Jordan’s bare thigh, excited at his ingenuity. “Betcha you’ve got no idea how hard it is to get a fridge down to the basement when you got power-drilled an’ all that.”

“You were _stabbed_?”

“No! Like I said, it was a drill,” clarifies Larry, as if it’s obvious. “Anyways, I’m gonna go after the girls soon, just wanted to make sure you two stay alive ‘till the next ISA meeting.”

And Jordan appreciates this bizarre show of faith much more than he can say. The ISA isn’t finished, then.

“You and Brainy wanna join us?” Larry prompts.

“I– I don’t know,” Jordan admits, thoroughly honest. There’s nothing to lose, here at the end of a dream decades in the making. “Henry might? I have– I have to see Cameron first. He has to know it’s not like Christine.” _He has to know the truth_ is what Jordan means but he doesn’t have it in him. Underneath the tears and scrapes, there’s exhaustion. Jordan longs for normalcy, always has.

There’s very little to say when Larry reaches out and tilts his chin up. At the end of the day, Jordan’s just a man. “Aw, bud, c’mon, I know what’ll cheer you right up,” Larry laughs and it’s _so_ very him that Jordan abruptly misses the indistinct peace of the days before Dr. Ito had finished the machine.

It’s Jordan who makes the first real move, who crashes his lips against Larry’s like he’s starved for it. With Henry, there’s always a pause, a palpable switching of gears. Larry, thankfully, doesn’t need to be told twice. He drags Jordan into his lap, hardly mindful of any injuries, unhesitant as he encourages Jordan to grind against him, their every movement tinted by a touch of something bordering on desperation, the push-and-pull of sheer _need_.

“One for the road, huh?” Larry breathes out, fingers digging into Jordan’s ass as he rocks up – a poor imitation of what a little more time or even the slightest inclination to momentarily part might afford them. It doesn’t make much of a difference.

They’re both hard or, if nothing else, well on their way there and Jordan moans as Larry slides a hand down the back of his briefs, rubs two fingers against an opening that’s going to need stretching if things happen to go further. Jordan jerks against Larry, aching for more, even moves to mouth at his neck, willing to give as good as he gets. It’s a rare, real blush that stains his cheeks. The ice needs time after how much the ordeal of failure has taken from him, though there’s chilled air puffing out with every breath. “ _Crusher_ ,” he gasps as Larry spreads him open and lets him rock his hips where Larry’s own cock strains against his pants.

“I’m the only one allowed to shatter you, ya hear that, bud?” Larry moves his hands out of the way, cups Jordan’s cock through the damp fabric of his underwear instead, gently traces the shape of him until Jordan’s movements turn sloppy, frenzied. “C’mon, baby, say it with me,” he insists, grinning wide.

Jordan does.

Again and again, as if he can’t risk Larry stopping, frantic with every real touch he gets amongst feather-light teasing. At last, Larry nudges his briefs out of the way, strokes him in earnest as Jordan shudders through a moan.

Comfort in familiarity, indeed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "OKAY PROMPT BCUZ OF THAT POST: Paula pegging Larry... while Jordan has to watch?? (maybeee he participates with Paula’s guidance?!)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is abysmal & i sincerely apologise

Jordan’s got the absurd urge to cover himself, practically tearing his own lip open with the way he’s gnawing at it in a despairing little moment of single-minded focus. His eyes have gone very wide, though uncomprehending, as if he’s yet to find a way to make sense of what he’s seeing. That message, however, neglects to carry to other, more sensitive parts of his anatomy – which remain embarrassingly interested in the catastrophe he’s been pulled into.

In all fairness, it’s an exceedingly compelling catastrophe. Jordan finds it very hard to tell on whose shoulders the blame rests.

The harness clings tight to Paula’s thin hips and her movements had been downright precise when she’d tugged it on, well-practiced and familiar like the weight of a crossbow in hand out in the field. Jordan hadn’t meant to watch, wouldn’t have without Larry holding him in place, mouthing wetly at his neck in the way that’s always got Jordan tilting his head, silently asking for more. “She’s a beaut, huh, bud?” Larry had whispered, pure awe, too warm against ice cracking and shifting along Jordan’s back.

He hadn’t known how to say that there’s a plethora of words to describe the feline growl in the back of Paula’s throat, the clawed gloves she’d only removed as an afterthought, the still-wet blood splatter running across the _Tigress_ shirt still firmly in place and the slow drip of it, trailing down towards a bare thigh. Terrifying, Jordan thinks, would be more apt.

It’s not–

They don’t do this. Jordan doesn’t _do_ this. He’s tolerated the odd night sandwiched between the ISA’s resident gym rats when exhaustion hadn’t permitted him to make it past Larry’s bed or he’d found himself to be mostly frozen shards. On one memorable occasion, he’s even gasped out his release as Larry had laughed about _givin’ Paula the play-by-play_ later in the evening. It’s not like Jordan’s ever counted on Paula herself making it home early after what she’d deemed an unsuccessful hunt, spilling over with frustrated energy and cutting Jordan off halfway to the main event. She’d thrown Larry on the bed with ease, like it’d been nothing at all to her, and Jordan hadn’t know what to do with the bright-eyed mania thrumming through Larry, the sheer _excitement_. He’d felt his mouth go dry.

“Oh, fuck, babe, right there.”

And the thing is– Larry is _loud_. It should come as no surprise, Jordan has grown accustomed to the running commentary every misaimed tryst gets, often hangs on every word like his life depends on it.

Tonight, it doesn’t make him ache any less, squirming in a futile search for friction that won’t come. Jordan’s exiled himself to the very edge of the bed, nearly frozen solid, cock throbbing because Larry’s on his hands and knees and he’s pushing back into Paula’s every thrust. “C’mon, baby, I know you can do better than that,” he pants out, tone stained with that chronic penchant for amusement. If nothing else, Larry only laughs when all that gets him is Paula grabbing a fistful of hair, pulling harshly ‘till he quiets down.

“Watch and learn,” Paula says, glancing at Jordan and the sheen of ice underneath him, the cold slowly overtaking the sheets. If she thinks it’s intentional, then she must think it pathetic, too. Jordan’s barely touched himself, though he can’t tell what he’s waiting for, whether it’s something more than Paula’s presence that’s kept him back.

Mostly, he’s yet to find a place in this sudden change. He’s tempted to reach out.

—

Jordan does not, ultimately, reach out.

By the time Larry comes, scrambles up to push the harness aside and dips a hand between Paula’s legs, Jordan starts believing he’s been forgotten, nearly resigns himself to it. There are, surely, worse fates out there. As Larry leans down, it becomes a great deal harder to come to terms with it.

“How’re you liking the show, pal?” Larry asks before he licks at Paula. It’s Jordan who shudders, frantic all at once.

—

Relief strikes Jordan as a very distant notion. He’s suffocating, sinking into the heat of the two bodies pressed on either side of him, paralysed with the distinct impression of having stepped into a primed bear trap, too aware a wrong move might mean the end. The fact that Paula’s got her back to him brings no comfort, whatever’s been embedded in him since the first time he’s caught a glimpse of her in action is not unlike some flavour of primal fear. In sharp contrast, Larry’s got a casual arm thrown over his chest, warm enough to leave prints in the ice.

“What’d I tell ya, honey?” Larry starts, all smiles, “does Icy come in handy or what?”

Paula, for her part, merely hums in reply, seemingly content.

It’s then Larry looks down and if Jordan could flush, if he hadn’t frozen over twice in the past hour, he certainly would. “Aw, bud, I can’t believe I nearly forgot about you,” Larry remarks, peppering a couple kisses along Jordan’s jaw, as if he really does mean to make up for it.

“No, really, it’s okay–”

And that’s not what Jordan _wants_ to sayby any means but Paula’s proximity raises both questions and acute risks.

“It’d be rude not to!” Larry insists and he’s already wrapping a hand around Jordan’s cock, brushing a thumb across the head where he’s been steadily leaking for too long now. Jordan turns to stifle a moan in the crook of Larry’s neck, desperate in a matter of minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Icicle/Brainwave - COLD SPELL - "The first time Jordan declined to meet him for a rendevous, Henry understood. The second time, Henry wondered. After the FIFTH time, Henry realized that Jordan's avoiding him." [Could be comedic (Jordan being literally too busy) or heavily angsty inspired by Henry's peculiar behavior in Chapter 10 of "The Iceman Cometh." What if Jordan decides that the negatives outweigh the positives?]"

Contrary to what assumptions his schedule might mislead one into at a first glance, Jordan likes early nights. They’re rare and, consequently, all that more precious. It’s a combination of severe jet-lag and a promise to treat Cameron to breakfast first thing tomorrow that’s got him in bed before midnight, far from confident in his ability to be up early without the assistance of a couple alarms. There’s no sting as Jordan turns his back on a side of the bed he’d never dare stretch towards, exhausted from a business trip that’s ran too long and already familiar with a tangible absence that’s colder than even he could ever manage.

As luck would have it, Jordan’s awake sooner than intended. It’s hard to tell what’d startled him into it. He reaches out for what’s never going to be there again, pure instinct, and lets out a shuddering breath, icy and visible in the dark. By the time he pads into the kitchen for a glass of water, it’s fast approaching 2 AM.

Jordan yawns as he rummages around for a glass, vaguely and only momentarily frustrated by the fact that his mother had clearly decided to rearrange the cupboards at some point or another in the past two weeks. He does, eventually, find what he’s looking for and settles for tap water, glass raised halfway to his mouth when he inadvertently steps back and hits– something solid.

Something that should, by all accounts, _not_ be there.

He stiffens, a shock of fear crawling up his spine. It’s the late hour, he tells himself, perplexed by a sense of inexplicable paranoia.

_Are you going to stand there all night?_

It’s a thought that isn’t his own by any means. Jordan, currently forgetful of a decades-long friendship with a telepath, screams. A short burst of panic. Somehow, and that must be partially because it’s frozen to his hand, he doesn’t drop the glass. He turns around slowly, like there’s any chance at all of finding anything other than a thoroughly unimpressed Henry looking down on him. He’s half right. It _is_ Henry, with added full Brainwave regalia. Jordan feels abruptly underdressed in his pyjama pants and threadbare t-shirt, a staple of his nights for a number of years now.

Company – which is to say: Henry himself or Larry Crock and just about no one else – doesn’t intrude here often. Jordan enjoys playing host, as long as his parents or Cameron aren’t home. That’s certainly not the case tonight.

“You didn’t tell me you were back,” Henry says, perfectly level, as if he hadn’t been looming in a moonlit kitchen waiting to strike. That’s a familiar tone, albeit one Jordan’s never failed to find condescending. He’s heard the way Henry talks to his son, it’s not too far off. There’s a prevailing feeling of betrayal at that, not easily shaken off, even as Jordan busies himself with trying to unstick the glass from his palm. He doesn’t even smash it.

“I didn’t tell anyone–”

Jordan stops to listen to the hurried footsteps coming down the stairs and dreads the moment of truth. Evidently, someone’s heard him. Considering the alternatives, it’s very nearly relief that beats in his chest at the sight of his parents, frazzled but ready and willing to deal with any intruders all the same.

They, too, aren’t particularly impressed with Henry’s existence.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Sofus asks, in Norwegian. Jordan sincerely hopes Henry hasn’t brushed up on any foreign languages lately, well-aware of the dislike his parents harbour for his oldest friend.

There’s no easy answer to that. Instead, Jordan downs his water, gingerly places the glass back in its rightful cupboard and grabs Henry by his sleeve, a hint of frost spreading over the leather in an instant. He’s still all wound up. “Henry was just leaving,” Jordan says, forcing himself into an unconvincing smile – no surprises there – as he quite conspicuously drags Henry towards his bedroom. Against reason, Henry goes easily.

—

“I don’t want you here in the middle of the night,” Jordan whispers, closing the door behind them. As far as whispers go, it’s an especially angry one. Cameron’s bedroom is right next door and the thought gets him fidgety, uneasy with Henry’s proximity.

And, as expected, that’s evidently no concern to the man in question. “You told Larry,” Henry remarks, picking up right where they left off.

“I didn’t–” Jordan lowers his voice after a glance at the clock on his nightstand. “I didn’t tell Larry, I just sent him a picture of a hockey stick I saw when I had that layover in Boston.” He sighs. “Look, Henry, I’ve just been spending the day with my family. I missed Cameron, alright? We can– I’ll come over tomorrow, make a day of it. I don’t have to be back at the office until Thursday.”

Strictly speaking, Jordan doesn’t _have_ to do anything. He still believes in the necessity of the American Dream in Blue Valley.

“I’m here right now,” Henry says and he’s always sounded much too composed, though there’s an edge to it for a split second, like Jordan’s meant to understand he’s kept him waiting. At the very least, that’s certainly what he gets from the hand now gripping his shoulder, fingers digging in through the thin fabric of his shirt. It strikes Jordan as warm, though he remembers Larry once pointing out Henry runs nearly as cold as _he_ does and somehow, forty-odd years on, Jordan still finds some novelty in the quirks of his unique biology.

Jordan almost gives in to the urge to ask why Henry is even here, longs for a confession of urgency. More acutely, he’s fighting a losing battle with his own interest in what he’s being offered. Henry must catch some trace of it, if the way his hand trails up until he’s cupping Jordan’s face is anything to go by. The gesture is no less forceful, hardly tender. Then again, Henry never is.

“You’ve missed it too.”

That’s as close as they’ve ever gotten. It’s enough for Jordan, even if he finds the thought unpleasant, the way he’s all too eager to give in.

He lets Henry walks him backwards until he hits the bed and tumbles down. It’s not all that graceful an act, Jordan’s mostly working blind here, unsure of Henry’s plan. Some part of him still looks forward to a good night’s sleep, though the notion seems to have abandoned ship by now. Jordan watches Henry tug off his overcoat and drape it over a chair, equally imposing without it. It’s the raw power of him that inevitably gives Jordan pause, no easy confidence like Larry’s got but rather a methodical surety. The shirt and pants he’s left in cling to Henry, and so do those hypnotising knee-high boots, as he strides back to the bed, stands in front of where Jordan’s sitting on his knees.

“I called you twice, you know,” Henry says. It’s all very matter of fact but Jordan’s had decades to learn to read between the lines. He swallows down the urge to apologise. _Twice_ is downright desperate, for Henry’s standards.

“It really was a business trip,” Jordan insists but his breathing’s picked up and he can’t deny the faint flush staining his cheeks, glimmering ice in the warm light of the lamp Henry takes a moment to turn on. He _has_ missed this, he thinks, but doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s easier to lean into the hand Henry tangles in his hair as he draws him close.

The reality of what he’s agreed to doesn’t quite dawn on Jordan until he’s unbuckling Henry’s belt, the sound of it much too loud in the night. Too obvious, surely. Jordan presses his mouth to the front of Henry’s pants for the shortest of moments, perhaps aiming for something of an apologetic kiss, before his fingers come to rest over his zipper. If he hesitates, it stops mattering the instant he drags Henry’s pants down and mouths wetly at the soft cotton of his underwear pulled taut, half-hard already.

Henry rocks into it, though his grip doesn’t tighten. An eventual moan, however soft, is more than enough encouragement for Jordan to reach in and free Henry’s cock, his own stirring between his thighs. It’s hard to believe he’d nearly passed this up. Jordan strokes Henry once, frowns a little at the way that gets him tensing up but takes no real note of it as takes him into his mouth, sucks at the head until he’s tasting pre-come, eyes screwed shut against his own jolt of pleasure at the sensation and–

And Henry’s pulling back, holding him in place while he’s at it. Jordan’s stomach twists with apprehension. “Is everything–”

“Your mouth is too cold.”

The thing is – the absurd, _hysterical_ fact of the matter – that Henry looks like he’s hovering on a razor-thin edge of embarrassment, cock still hard and wet where Jordan had managed to get his mouth around him. It’s an unfamiliar look on him, hastily shoved down. Jordan brings a finger up to his own lips, as if to determine the truth.

“Oh,” he breathes out. “Crusher likes it when I–”

“I know _Larry_ likes it, Jordan.” Henry’s growing annoyance is nothing to be trifled with and Jordan’s cock still aches, he’d like the relief of continuing this ill-advised encounter. “I’ve got a better idea.”

In the sudden interest of getting off, Jordan scrambles off the bed the minute Henry sits down and takes it upon himself to help him with his boots. It’s a well-documented struggle, no matter how much they might feature in a vast amount of fantasies Jordan might or might have not had since their appearance. “Is there a zipper or… ?”

“No, they just–” Henry mimics tugging off the boots and Jordan does just that, surprised that his assistance’s been accepted in the first place.

It does, however, take some effort.

“Why–” Jordan pulls ineffectually at Henry’s left boot. “Why did you–” Another pull. “Why did you even go to the effort of dressing up?!” he gasps out, stumbling backwards on the hardwood floor in the wake of a sudden success. He’s ecstatic with it, ice cracking along his cheeks.

At that, Henry raises an eyebrow. An answer in itself.

Sparing a glance for Henry’s cock, tantalisingly close, Jordan allows a kiss to a sharp hipbone. Then, at last, he complies. It goes easier this time and Jordan gets Henry out of his pants, too. Confusingly, the distinct impression of being _under_ dressed holds steady. At last, Jordan climbs back onto the bed and straddles Henry, grinds down on him, gone frantic in the minutes wasted undressing.

It’s not what he’d had in mind but he hadn’t achieved his early night either. An acceptable compromise, in the right light.

For the longest time, they merely look at each other expectantly, both hard and wanting. Jordan, long used to Larry taking charge during their trysts, tilts his head. No sign of life comes.

“Well?” Henry prompts.

Jordan sighs. “There’s lube in the drawer–” he trails off as Henry’s hands slide over his ass and pull him close. A pathetic little moan bubbles in his throat as their cocks brush together through the one remaining barrier of his pyjama pants, damp with pre-come in this escalating frenzy. 

For now, it’s enough. Jordan’s fine with _enough_.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onesided Brainwave/Icicle - PATIENCE - "In the end, it was always going to be the two of them. Soon, Henry will see that. " [A fic about planning their future, Jordan musing on his first and most reoccurring obsession, pre-JSA annihilation.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folks there's some angst here and a couple personal headcanons so watch out

_I was stunned by her thoughts, Jordan. They were so– pure. So good. So unlike everyone else’s._

Most of all, Jordan remembers the sting of it. The glee in Henry’s voice, nothing at all like himself. A botched robbery, a last minute escape and Henry had been… happy. No, downright ecstatic. Then, as he’d recounted the details over and over, he’d turned wistful, like there was something beyond shared aspirations and the late nights that had meant the world thus far.

Jordan likes Merry Pemberton-soon-to-be-King. The fact of the matter is that Merry makes herself very difficult _not_ to like, she’s bubbly and energetic and open and present in ways Henry’s never been. By now, Jordan’s met her three times total and there’s nothing disconcerting about the way she seems to really listen when someone’s talking, her little laughs and a tendency to go wide-eyed before breaking into a particularly bright smile. She’s sunshine. Jordan wants to hate her. He tries to, at any rate. It’s easy to see why Henry’s fallen hard and fast, harder to understand why his own heart is closing like a fist.

It’s ridiculous.

Betrayal isn’t– doesn’t– even begin to cover it. Jordan’s always assumed his own thoughts to be good enough. He’s been there when Henry’s migraines had gotten too much and he’s dared to hold him through the occasional attack of hopelessness that seems to come with the territory when one finds themselves capable of telepathy, he’s even let Henry into his _own_ mind, has shuddered at the odd sensation but allowed it nonetheless.

A wish for a better world and a plan to achieve it should’ve been _enough_. Jordan doesn’t know what Merry’s got over him, whether it’s precisely this petty jealously that Henry’s sensing.

Jordan throws himself into the mission, gathers a team to the best of his ability, practices endlessly with the ice he’s wielded since childhood and the hurt doesn’t recede. If the enthusiasm of that first sight of Merry stings, the ensuing missed and forgotten meetings wound.

The Injustice Society of America – a name that’s, ultimately, been lifted from an older incarnation with less noble, far-reaching goals – doesn’t much impress Henry. _I made our dream come true!_ Jordan wants to shout at the inevitably empty apartment he comes home to. He considers moving back in with his parents, is nearly willing to face the taste of failure _that_ leaves behind. Instead, when he’s exhausted all resources and Henry’s announced his engagement, Jordan runs. It’s been a year and a couple months of waning interest, it strikes Jordan as too quick and, as always, nothing like anything his best friend would do. It’s that day that Jordan does catch him at home, too far off from an ending fitting for the start.

“Henry, people like us don’t get married,” Jordan says and he remembers the plane ticket in his room, the bags he’d packed in a frenzy just the other night.

And Henry’s frowning but all Jordan can think is that he’s looking at him. He’s almost giddy with it, the lack of Merry Pemberton-soon-to-be-King, the reality of Henry’s piercing gaze. It should hurt, he supposes, but it _doesn’t_. Jordan fears how far he’s willing to push just to get here.

“Why? Because we’re– because people assume we’re villains?” Henry bites back. Merry’s changed him in ways Jordan might never understand. At his core, Brainwave languishes.

Jordan, for his part, sort of gapes in the absence of coherency.

“Yeah,” he decides. It’s the work of urgency. He knows what he means and yet clings to the notion that Henry does not. The missed chance already stains what little they’ve still got. “That’s what I meant.” Jordan nods, for good measure. “That’s exactly what I meant. Don’t read my mind, please.”

For whatever reason, Henry listens.

Maybe he knows, after all. Jordan’s leaving all the same.

—

It’s been days since he’s last spoken to Henry. They’d had an argument. Again. Variations on a theme, nowadays. The mission, the stakes, the inherent sacrifices. Henry’s reluctance has been a thorn in Jordan’s side for seven years now. Henry has a _son_ , a family and– he says it like Jordan doesn’t, like he hadn’t given up London in favour of a return to form and the same longing in his chest that only Christine has ever managed to soothe. The ISA is here to stay. To Jordan, the addition of a family has only made the importance of their project that much more stark, even their resident gym rats appear to have caught on. It’s Henry alone who falters, tainted by Merry’s heroics. She’s never seen the bigger picture.

If Jordan has attempted to remedy that with the permanent defeat of the JSA, he’s certainly convinced he’s done the right thing.

Sacrifices, as he keeps telling Henry, are expected.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is a call from Henry and a greeting consisting entirely of harsh, gasping breaths.

“Henry, are you–”

“I think she’s– I didn’t–” Henry, sounding like he’s swallowing down a sob, only continues after a pause. The moment drags on. Jordan’s never heard him like this, has hoped he never would. “It’s Merry, she– I need you.”

With that, the line goes dead. Jordan sinks into dread and the flutter of those sweet words tightens like a noose. It’s not what he’s planned.

Not at all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "prompt; Jordan recruiting Sportsmaster for the ISA, maybe by popping up/helping Larry out on the tail-end of a mission he found out about? Bonus: Larry flirts more and more aggressively with an initially oblivious Jordan maybe culminating in ~something sexyyy~??"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very very early isa flashback. gl is obv my main man alan

In-between Gotham’s gargoyles and a darkened sky, Green Lantern strikes an intimidating figure. The green fire that surrounds him throws bizarre, flickering shadows and smells strongly of ozone, near-suffocating in an immediate vicinity. Bathed in this otherworldly light, Jordan understands why he’s never stepped this close before. Green Lantern’s just a _man_ , he thinks and finds it very difficult to accept it.

For one thing, no one’s that big. The Lantern is blond – exceedingly so, not unlike Jordan himself – and even in flight, gives off the distinct impression of towering over both friends and foes. Jordan’s read about Green Lantern in his father’s meticulous files long before he’d ever thought to follow in his footsteps, it all pales in comparison to the truth. It’s hard to look away and yet, Jordan does precisely that the minute a baseball explodes squarely in Lantern’s face; three more follow in quick succession, all impeccably aimed. This, right here, is what he came for. Membership drives aren’t exactly easy when you’re trying to revive the Injustice Society of America. Lawrence ‘Crusher’ Crock, aka _Sportsmaster_ , is the man Jordan’s looking for.

The mugshots and the sparse details Jordan has already gone over a dozen times do very little to capture the manic glee in Sportsmaster’s laugh or the electric blue of his eyes framed by a blood-stained hockey mask. The sight, quite frankly, leaves Jordan breathless. The detour to Gotham, the aimless nights spent looking for any traces of Green Lantern and his most infamous adversary, it’s all been worth it in the end.

All at once, the dream seems within reach, no longer the late-night ramblings addressed to a Henry preoccupied by textbooks. Jordan, at this first glance, finds Sportsmaster capable of the impossible.

It’s in the eyes.

Green Lantern goes down with a thud, knocked over by a well-placed bat. Vaguely recalling a case the local newspapers had dubbed _Made of Wood_ as a reference to the hero’s weakness, Jordan springs into action. He abandons his vantage point in favour of the field, not often frequented before tonight, and lets himself freeze, sinks into the familiarity of ice spreading and cracking along his skin, uses it to steady his nerves. It’s then, at last, Jordan shoots a wave of cold from his fingertips and traps Green Lantern in a block of ice, extinguishing his fire in the process. It’s startlingly easy. Jordan’s trained himself not to expect _easy_ , he gets lost in the sudden cheer Sportsmaster gives all the same.

“Alright, Icy! Alright!” Sportsmaster laughs, worryingly close. Right behind Jordan, as fate would have it. Underneath the smell of sweat, there’s a metallic tang of blood, very nearly tangible. It’s not _un_ pleasant – concerning in itself.

Jordan smiles, barely drives down the exhilaration rising in his chest. Company in this form is rare, compliments even rarer. Both he and Henry tend towards the quick and silent, they’re yet to master the art of monologues as Sportsmaster supposedly has. He’d be a welcome addition to their little team, these first stirrings of an ISA renaissance, and Jordan’s about to turn and say that much when the very same baseball bat that had brought down Green Lantern is unceremoniously shoved between his shoulder blades. He, too, ends up down on his knees.

“Now, Frosty, I’d _love_ to know why you’re stealin’ my target,” Sportsmaster says and if there’s any amusement left, it’s certainly turned mocking. “Me an’ Green Latrine here? We’ve got history and it sure as hell ain’t amateur hour, pal. You better start talking.”

Two things happen simultaneously, neither of which Jordan is particularly fond of. The first, and more regrettable one, is the abrupt shock of warmth in his gut at the realisation that a slight miscalculation might’ve intervened – he’s in over his head, it does little to explain the way his breathing picks up, chilly and visible in the night air. The second, equally acute matter is that the moment Jordan’s flow of cold had stopped, Green Lantern’s started melting through the ice. Too easy, indeed. It’s unsurprising, especially when it comes to a man who spends very little time _not_ actively on fire.

“I was trying to help,” Jordan manages, quiet. He keeps perfectly still, afraid he’s compromised an already unstable pitch. Distantly, he registers the heat emanating off Sportsmaster, the way the ground’s frozen underneath his own legs. “I’m– I’m putting together a team. I’m Icicle and so far, it’s just me and Brainwave but we’ve got a plan to change the–”

 _Project: New America,_ a name that’s only come into existence in the past week, is momentarily cast aside when Sportsmaster smashes the wooden bat over Green Lantern’s head before he’s got a chance to finalise his escape and appears to thoroughly knock him out. Jordan cringes at the sound and discovers that, somewhere along the line, he’s put his hands up. He lowers them in embarrassment.

“Look what you made me do! Don’tcha know I like to play with my prey, Icy?” Sportsmaster shakes his head and kicks at Green Lantern’s unconscious form. “Where’s the fun in _this_?”

“The Injustice Society of America _would_ be fun,” Jordan says, picking himself up, though he can’t honestly attest to how true that is. Henry enjoys Scrabble, sometimes. It’s not everyone’s definition of fun. “Look, we could really use a guy like you on the team. We want to change the world.”

“What, you’re fightin’ for injustice?”

“No, _against_.” To Jordan, it’s obvious. “The JSA has made no difference in the world because they’re afraid of real change, real power. _I’ve_ got a plan.”

Sportsmaster tilts his head, though Jordan would bet good money on a grin underneath the mask. He _does_ laugh, whole body shaking with it like he really means it, like it’s real and surely no less unhinged than before. Ultimately, he thrown an arm around Jordan’s shoulders, pulls him in close and tight. “Hah, that’s the first time I’ve heard that one. No, really, it is! You doin’ anything tonight, bud?”

To his credit, Jordan glances at Green Lantern. “No?”

“Great! I know I am,” Sportsmaster says and winks. “And hey, friends call me Crusher.”

And there it is. Mission accomplished.

Jordan hopes.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "SPORTSMASTER/ICICLE - OBLIVIOUS pt.2 -"Jordan accepts Larry's invitation to dinner at the Crocks after being propositioned. He's no virgin, but with Larry he might as well be." [A nsfw continuation of your fabulous "Oblivious" drabble, but this time a homerun! BONUS: Jordan's first time with a guy going all the way, gentle and patient CRUSHER, Paula hijinx, confirmation of how delicious Larry's grilled salmon is?]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A (REALLY BAD, IM SORRY) CONTINUATION OF SPORTCICLE: ORIGINS (CH 4)

It was supposed to be dinner. In a manner of speaking, it _was_ dinner. Larry’s unexpectedly delicious cooking, accompanied by the wine Jordan had thought polite to bring along. He knows what he’s been promised, it’s left him aching for the longest time, shifting in his seat all through the ISA meeting Dr. Ito had found necessary to subject them to, the odd glances thrown his way that had brought frost to his cheeks and beyond, at the office.

Jordan’s ashamed to say it’s the thought alone that had nearly pushed him to press a hand against himself on the drive over, emboldened by the phantom touch Larry had left behind, the intoxicating warmth of him. It’s been– a _while_. That’s putting it kindly. Jordan hadn’t given in though, he’d sat there and endured dinner, had even made conversation to the best of his ability, only moderately intimidated by the way Paula’s been eyeing him like she’s on the hunt or Larry’s lazy amusement and a prevailing reminder that Artemis is spending the night at a friend’s. He can still back out.

In hindsight, it strikes Jordan as surreal that he’d let Larry take it that far in the ISA headquarters. The hunger it’s awaken, even more so.

Three years.

Not long enough, he knows. After Christine, Jordan had dedicated his life solely to the mission, he’d done everything right, he’d been there for Cameron and had kept his tears to himself, confined his mourning to locked doors. Now, as the pieces of _Project: New America_ are starting to fall into place, Larry seems intent on inducing an attack of guilt. Jordan is just about ready to choke on the wrongness of it when he startles at the hand on his shoulder. The evening’s been winding down for some time.

“How’s it goin’, bud?” Larry says and his smile’s nothing if not genuine, blue eyes glimmering with some joke Jordan’s never been in on. He _likes_ the easy affection, a far cry from Henry’s cold reticence.

“Great!”

It’s not, in fact, what Jordan means to say, freshly wrenched out of his shame spiral. Belatedly, he notes Paula must’ve disappeared somewhere along the line.

“Well, if you’re feelin’ so _great_ ,” Larry starts, far from entirely convinced, “how about we take it upstairs? Don’t think I forgot what I promised ya!” He kisses Jordan’s neck, high where there’s still the faintest trace of this afternoon’s misadventures, then helps him up from the kitchen chair he’s spent the past half hour freezing to. “That is, if you’re still up for it.”

Against reason, Jordan is. He longs for a break from– not _Christine_ but the grief, weighed down with it for years and years. Jordan turns his head to kiss Larry. In the end, he’s just a man.

—

It’s not a wholly unfamiliar sensation. For the longest time, Jordan forgets how to breathe. A sheen of ice spreads down to his chest, patches frozen solid here and there where a flush might ordinarily stain pale skin. Squirming down on the two fingers Larry’s pressed into him, Jordan suspects there’s snow settling around his body, powers gone into overdrive as he falls into the push-and-pull of distraction. He’s deaf to anything but the rush of blood in his ears, an arm thrown over his eyes, as if he can’t quite face the absurdity of his own pleasure.

“Hey, _hey_ , Icy.” The usual note of glee holds steady underneath a tone that’s gotten dangerously close to gentle. Larry sounds downright _elated_. “Ya gotta relax, alright? C’mon, bud, you’re takin’ it so well.”

Jordan doesn’t know what to make of that or the way Larry twists his fingers inside him, rubs up against something that’s got him panting, desperate puffs of chilled air, starkly visible all at once. There’s a welcome novelty to the slide of Larry’s free hand where he’s smeared excess lube on his thigh, gripping at him as he keeps Jordan spread open.

“You done this before?” Larry asks, purely conversational, as he adds another finger. Jordan arches his back, gasping.

He opens his eyes a crack, unsure whether Larry expects a genuine answers, not all that convinced he _can_ give one either. “Y-Yeah– Ah, kind of,” he breathes out, barely recognises his own voice, “Christine once–”

Oh, _no_.

No, no, no, Jordan doesn’t need the reminder now. If nothing else, he’s sure it’s bad form to bring up a dead wife. It must be. Luckily, Larry merely laughs and it doesn’t seem to dampen his manic glee in the least, offering up a smile that’s all teeth while he’s at it. As a matter of fact, it’s right then and there that he decides Jordan’s as ready as he’s ever gonna be. Wiping his hand on the sheets as he goes, Larry manoeuvres his way into a biting little kiss, eventually moving to mouth wetly at Jordan’s neck as he pushes into him.

“Larry,” Jordan gasps, halfway through a shuddering moan, gone frantic with the heat of Larry, nearly painful where he’s frozen over. He grasps desperately at Larry’s shoulder, urging him to be still until he adjusts to the sudden fullness. Easier said than done.

For his part, Larry reaches out to brush a couple stray strands of hair off Jordan’s forehead. “It’s Crusher, baby, remember?” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. _That’s_ quickly forgotten in favour of a juvenile sort of curiosity. Larry pokes a finger at a thoroughly frozen section of Jordan’s chest. “I gotta ask, pal. Is this normal?”

Jordan looks down at himself as well as he can, breath momentarily knocked out of him as he inadvertently clenches around Larry. “Uh.” He rocks against Larry, well on his way to losing any and all trains of thought. “For me or– in general?”

That’s good enough of an answer for Larry to pull him into a bruising kiss. Jordan melts into it, content.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ""What's a little homoerotic telepathy between friends?" But like... in icewave or sportswave fic form?"

It starts as these things usually do. Late night, Henry’s study, a couple glasses of extraordinarily overpriced wine and a stark absence of Larry. The latter, although tragic, is mostly no one’s fault. Jordan can’t begrudge the odd freelance jobs Larry takes on every now and again, not when he’s always made it back wild-eyed and bloodstained and looking for some action. _That_ would be preferable just now. Instead, Jordan’s curled up on the armchair facing Henry’s desk, peering intently at the blueprints Dr. Ito had sent over earlier in the evening. It’s been two hours. Three, at worst.

“Do we need to approve these?” Jordan asks, eventually. After a beat, he even glances up, frowning a little at the sight of Henry, hunched over some paperwork and resolutely paying very little attention to the drama unfolding right before him. “Henry, I don’t know what I’m looking at here.”

“It’s a synaptic amplifier.”

Henry says it like it’s simple, _obvious_. As if he hasn’t been losing any sleep at all over the approaching reality of Project: New America. Jordan has, for some weeks now. The promise he’d made Christine feels both very far and devastatingly close at hand, the consequences that the process might have on _Henry_ get him antsy, too. A decade’s work will become tangible in a matter of months. Jordan doesn’t quite know what to do with that. Tonight, there’s not much he _can_ do, other than approve blueprints he understands very little of and put his trust in a so-called synaptic amplifier that’s all Dr. Ito’s idea. The trials of leadership.

“Right.” Jordan nods, lets it hang in the air for the longest of moments. And then, once he deems the silence particularly unwieldy, “What’re you working on? Did Steven send you something?”

“Hm? Oh, no. This is from the hospital, just catching up on some paperwork.” Henry, disappointingly enough, leaves it at that. In fact, he goes right back to business with the same single-minded focus often reserved for the times he moonlights as Brainwave. For Jordan, who’s already abandoned his jacket and tie over the back of the chair and has proceeded to crease his suit pants beyond immediate repair on the sheer basis of sitting cross-legged, it sounds like a death sentence.

There’s the possibility of going home, sure, but Jordan’s texted Cameron goodnight too long ago already and the thought of a quiet house and an empty bed is hardly encouraging. Henry’s company, on the other hand, is not unlike what Jordan might come to classify as _the old days_ and it’s warm enough, familiar enough to stick around.

Jordan’s mind does, however, wander. He can’t help it. With the blueprints folded and cast aside, he’s left with very little to entertain himself with.

It’s the wine or the late hour or, most humiliating of all, it’s merely been a while and Henry’s desk is right _there_. Jordan’s hand rests on his own thigh, a gesture halfway to unconscious. It’s what Larry would do, he thinks. After all, Henry needs a break, they both do. He pictures himself bent over the desk, hands clutching at–

“No,” Henry says, hardly bothering to look up, “you’d scratch the wood.”

And it’s downright startling how that’s got Jordan’s hand scrambling away, settling on the armrest. He hadn’t… _felt_ Henry intruding in his mind, hadn’t let him in either. “I didn’t–” Jordan starts and stops in the same instant, gapes at the images that fill his head – visions of him kneeling between Henry’s legs underneath the desk, lips gone red and mouth wrapped around his cock, all while Henry continues his impassive foray into paperwork. Jordan shudders, eyes screwed shut against a thought that isn’t his. “God,” he breathes out, a heated little whisper. It’s not an angle one often gets the benefit of seeing. “Do you–”

“Your mouth is too cold.”

He can’t tell what game Henry’s playing. Jordan knows what he must look like and can’t work up more than a twinge of embarrassment. Other, more acute sensations have taken priority. He responds in kind, provokes Henry in the only way he knows how. It’s easy to picture _Larry_ bending him over the desk, pants pulled down just enough to ensure he can thrust into Jordan, fingers digging harshly into his hips, leaving prints in the inevitable sheen of ice that’s never too far away.

For effect, Jordan thinks to add bits and pieces of the Sportsmaster costume, focuses on the shock of blue that are Larry’s eyes peeking out from the darkened mask. It’s vivid, if he says so himself. The scrape of Henry’s chair against the hardwood floor only confirms it.

“It’s me you want though, isn’t it, Jordan?” Henry asks, taking off his glasses as he goes along. There’s only a couple of steps until he’s standing in front of the armchair, practically looming over Jordan. It’s nothing in the vicinity of new, it gets his breathing picking up all the same. Henry cards a hand through his hair and Jordan leans into the touch, nearly surprised he’s succeeded in getting Henry’s attention and at the rush that brings, the novelty that’s never faded.

It’s hard to nod as Henry tightens his grip, Jordan tries to anyway. “Yes,” he breathes out, reaching out to rest his hands on Henry’s thighs in an attempt to steady himself.

Henry doesn’t smile but it’s a close thing.

_You couldn’t wait until I finished?_

Difficult to admit to the jolt of warmth _that_ sends through Jordan, the way he seems to have ended up at Henry’s mercy. The voice in his head, Henry’s alone, quiets all other thoughts.

 _Needy_.

Jordan squirms. Somewhere along the line, he’s gotten hard. Too quick, too much. There’s no warning when Henry lets go and circles back to his desk, sits down like nothing’s happened. “There’s not much left,” Henry says, putting on his glasses and picking up his pen again. It’s clear he doesn’t mean to reassure.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Brainwave/Icicle - IN THE DARK - "After Henry suffers a particularly bad migraine, Jordan comforts him." [Icewave origins: The start of their decades+ toxic love affair and the beginning of their co-dependency, maybe Jordan discovering his intense want of being needed by Henry? Inspired by your migraine passage in Ch.15]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT ACTUALLY ORIGINS AND MORE PRESENT DAY-ISH BUT I HOPE IT'S. GOOD. (I'M ALWAYS THINKING ABOUT JORDAN LOSING HIS DAMN MIND IN THE FINALE WHILE SAYING HE JUST WANTED TO HELP PEOPLE. THAT'S HIS MOTIVE FOR EVERYTHING IN HIS LIFE)

The sliver of light peeking through the doorway illuminates very little of Henry’s bedroom. The dark seems heavy, nearly tangible; all odd and sharp contours of whatever might lay beyond. Blackout blinds, Jordan thinks, understands why he’s ended up here in the midst of a fit of familiarity.

Or, at a glance, deja-vu.

It’s not unlike Henry to miss ISA meetings when he’s deemed them unimportant but Jordan’s never known him to skip work and it’s his absence at the hospital that’s required a trip home. Henry dislikes Blue Valley and its close-knit community, frequents less and less of the town. There hadn’t been many places to look. Jordan had just wanted– _needed_ to make sure.

Henry’s maid had let him in. Years on, Jordan still finds the notion bizarre. A _maid_. He’s yet to figure out what to make of it, other than a vague suspicion that even Henry had bought too much into the allure of a stately manor – an original piece of Blue Valley, unlike Jordan’s own home.

An odd tension follows Jordan as he steps in, shuts the door behind himself and takes a moment to let his eyes adjust to the abrupt lack of light. He bumps into something on the way to the vague shape of the king-sized bed presiding over a room that’s become almost cavernous in the dark. No crash follows, Jordan counts it as a success. He feels rather than sees the edge of the bed and sits down gingerly, tries not to jostle Henry too much in the process. Jordan’s still got his coat on, not through any fault of his own when it’s been concern alone pulling him along. It’s hard to tell what he’d thought had happened, wouldn’t much like to find out either.

“Migraine?” he asks, keeps it close to a whisper. The curled-up silhouette of Henry shifts, turns over to face him.

Jordan’s reminded of what feels like another lifetime, all the way back to New York and an apartment they’d shared during those first stirrings of the ISA. Henry’s headaches were _bad_ back then, unused to the extent of Brainwave’s powers, the assault of thoughts most crowded rooms would bring. Maybe, and Jordan’s going on pure assumption here, it’d been a sign of the telepathy growing as well, developing to its current form, painful like his own ice sometimes stings when he’s low on energy.

He doesn’t know what it is, not really, nor why it’d come back _now_ but Jordan would like to help. More often than not, it’s all he wants. At Henry’s nod, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Not ideal but manageable. Jordan can work with migraines, has done so before. 

It’s not– _all_ selfless, though the thought wounds late at night. It’s so rare that he gets to help in any palpable sense, that Henry needs him in ways he can provide and Jordan enjoys the attention more than he should.

Back then, it’d been more than a _friend_ should. Nowadays, Jordan likes to think he’s moved up in rank, even if he doesn’t know what he and Henry are meant to be. He’s happy to be here, happy that he gets to shove down the warmth in his chest and lean close to brush a hand through Henry’s hair, gentle because he needs it to count, wouldn’t be able to bear being asked to stop.

“Do you want the ice thing?” Jordan asks, sort of hates the sound of his own voice in the too quiet room and the fact that he aches for this like Henry never will.

For the longest time, Henry seems to consider it. Jordan worries he’s seen through the charade.

In the end, he allows it.

“Alright,” Henry says and he even scoots over to let Jordan lie down next to him, doesn’t say a single word about how he’s got shoes and a coat that’s slowly getting him in the vicinity of overheated still on. Jordan doesn’t either, wouldn’t dare ruin the moment. He lets his hands freeze and reaches out for Henry’s forehead, lingers for as long as he thinks it safe. It’s supposed to numb the pain, Jordan’s read up on it since the first time Henry had sheepishly asked him to try, impatient with a sudden shortage of ice-packs.

They’re close enough to kiss and Jordan is sorely tempted. Instead, he pulls back. “Any better?”

Henry shakes his head.

That’s a first.

So, Jordan tries again. Over and over, growing steadily frustrated with his own inability to ease Henry’s pain. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, old friend, I know how it feels–”

“Do you.” It’s barely a question and somewhere underneath the strain of having sat up enough to gaze down at Jordan in the dark, Henry sounds like– himself. Cold, bitter, disappointed with failure. Jordan tenses up without knowing why. It’s Henry who reaches out then, grasps Jordan’s face with purpose. At first, there’s no rhyme or reason to the blinding pain that overcomes Jordan, he whimpers at the shock of it and freezes in an instant, fear and self-defence alike.

Then, as Henry lets go, Jordan remembers how to breathe, draws in great big gulps of air like he’d been drowning. “Now you know,” Henry says. Inexplicably, he gets up, moves towards the en-suite.

“Is it gone for you?”

“For now.”

Jordan pulls his knees to his chest, eyes screwed shut. He’d do it again. For Henry, he’d do it again.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "now my prompt for u is larry sweet talking jordan into not [redacted] <3"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a COMPANION PIECE or SEQUEL(?) to my beloved buddy's [amazing incredible drabble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185534/chapters/65963332)

Jordan’s still got his shirt on. Tie, too. It’s too tight, suffocating with the heat of Larry pressed up against his back. In the mirror, it’s ridiculous. Jordan meets the eyes and flushed cheeks of his reflection and the frost he’s reining in, looks over at Larry’s legs bracketing his own and finds that he likes the closeness. He’s rarely regretted the mirrored headboard. Supposedly, they’re on a tight schedule. You wouldn’t know it from the sight of them.

It’s not– Jordan hadn’t _meant_ to get carried away. He’d come straight from the office, had called Larry on the way home, urgently stressing the need for what Sportsmaster and Tigress do best, their well-worn appreciation for a good _hunt_. 

Earlier, Dr. Ito had sent Steven with news about the machine, the parts yet to be obtained and where they might be found at short notice. Jordan likes putting it all together, organising the _who_ and _what_ and _when_ but he hadn’t understood the immensity of another step of the way until he’d ran into Larry on his porch, gotten all caught up in an ever-contagious excitement. It’s not whether Larry much cares for the new world they’re building, and Jordan suspects he doesn’t, but rather the genuine enthusiasm of him, never restrained though often razor-sharp, a manic edge with the distinct disposition of a primed bear trap. Jordan likes it.

His parents, for once, had taken Cameron out to dinner. Jordan had even let Larry throw an arm around him on the way up.

A miracle of intimacy.

Nowadays, he doesn’t often dwell on it. After the night with Henry and the empty bed he’d had to show for it, the wound had seemed fresh.

The fact of the matter is that Larry’s got some sixth sense for perceived betrayal. Blood in the water and all that, a nose for nearby prey. After Jordan’s little spiel on the mission, he’d asked about Henry, eyeing the way Jordan had been holding himself, distantly sore two days on. They’d taken it from there.

“Spent the night though, didn’tcha? That’s a new one,” Larry says, mulling it over. He’s resting his chin on Jordan’s shoulder, spares a smile for the mirror. Jordan knows he’s spilled too much already but there’s no one else to tell, no one who’d ever asked before. It helps that Larry’s got him down to his briefs, tracing aimless shapes along his thighs. There’s a very short road between blurting out the way Henry had held him on the edge for what had felt like a lifetime and Larry suggesting to get more _comfortable_.

“Yeah. I mean, he left for work before I woke up.” Jordan thinks he should be grateful for how much he’s been granted. His heart fails to get the message.

Larry hums, downright sympathetic. The reality of it is hard to measure. He tilts Jordan’s head to mouth at his neck, above the collar out of necessity, and Jordan shudders at the next couple kisses, wonders how much will be seen in the morning. It strikes him as odd that Henry hadn’t left any marks, nearly surreal that it’d happened at all. Jordan reaches out for Larry’s hand when it dips beyond his waistband.

“Crusher, I’m still–”

“Aw, bud, I’m takin’ it easy, alright?” Another kiss. More of a bite, really. “I’m just gonna get you off. Fair an’ square.”

And Jordan’s not about to argue with that when Larry pushes down his briefs just enough to get a hand around his cock. He watches himself tense up against the acute shock of pleasure, bites at his lip until he’s tasting copper just to fight the seams of ice threatening to crack open. It’s barely a moment until Larry lets go just to shove two fingers in his mouth, laughing when Jordan starts licking at them on instinct.

“How’s about it, champ? You wanna tell me what else Brainy did?” Larry says it like it’s _easy_ , as if he’s given Jordan any chance to answer at all.

It’s pure coincidence that Jordan glances at the mirror then. The _look_ of them knocks the breath out of him. There’s something obscene to his red lips stretched around Larry’s fingers in a cheap imitation of an act that would leave him all that more breathless, the head of his cock still visible where Larry had pushed his briefs aside, already wet with pre-come.

Half of it must be the reminder of Henry, the intensity that’s stuck around in his absence.

When Larry gets his hand back on him, Jordan whimpers, scrambles up to undo his tie in a clumsy bid for air. “He wouldn’t– let me freeze, doesn’t like the, _ah_ , ice,” he explains, not particularly convinced he’s making much sense, preoccupied with the hand on his cock, the hint of Larry pressing up against his back where he’s gotten hard in the meantime. He flinches when Larry laughs again, startled just as he’d been sinking into hazy arousal.

“ _That’s_ why you’re all tense?” Amusement rings out loud and clear in Larry’s voice. “C’mon, let go. Brainy doesn’t know what he’s missing on! I tell ya, pal, nothin’ beats seeing you ice up.”

For whatever reason, Jordan holds back.

_If you freeze, I can personally ensure you will never come again._

He remembers how Henry had sounded – utterly and gravely serious – and remembers the fear beating right out of his chest, too. It might’ve become ingrained in him. Jordan’s convinced Henry would _know_.

Larry picks up the pace, strokes him hard and fast until Jordan starts thinking he’s about to come right then and there, shudders and moans and rocks into it and– it all reaches a stuttering stop.

No, no, no, not again. Not _now_. Jordan dislikes his own desperation, tears stinging at his eyes. He’s too warm, likely to overheat before he even gets a taste of relief. “Crusher,” he whines. On a good day, a new low. Today’s not a good day. Larry grabs a handful of his hair, doesn’t pull as much as redirects him towards the humiliating display of his own reflection once more. It only serves to deepen all the ways Jordan’s gone frantic in a matter of minutes.

“You’re being so good for me, bud,” Larry whispers as he rubs a thumb over Jordan’s cock, spreads pre-come around while he’s at it, “if you freeze but don’t come ‘till I say you can, I promise I’ll tell Brainy _allll_ about how good you are. Now, how’s that sound?”

It feels like a competition, whatever he’s unwittingly awakened between Larry and Henry. Jordan doesn’t know what to make of it nor of the too-quick shifting of gears, can hardly account for the way his cock _aches_ at Larry’s words.

He wants–

He likes how Larry had put it. Jordan wants that. To think the word would be a step too far.

The ice crackles as it spreads and shifts. It’s nothing short of frenzied relief. Jordan sighs through the sensation, breath visible. Larry wolf-whistles at the sight, grins bright and open.

“Alright then, bud! Alright!” he exclaims and pulls Jordan into a hungry, dizzying kiss. There’s a change in the air, mania injected into Larry’s arousal. “That’s all you wanna hear, huh? Think you can keep being good a little longer? Y’know, I don’t need fancy-schmancy powers, baby. You’re all mine.” Larry’s stroking Jordan as he talks, on the right side of rough, and it takes everything Jordan’s got not to give in. The sheen of frost on his chest is broken up in parts by deeper patches of ice, quite literally frozen solid, and there’s an exhilaration to the heat of Larry’s free hand melting across it as he holds Jordan in place.

There’s little Jordan can do but take it. Somehow, it’s different than it had been with Henry, he fears no loss or disappointment. Larry would think he’s still–

 _Good_.

He shakes with the strain of his need. Jordan hardly realises his tears have frozen along with the rest of him. Larry kisses him again, smiling against his lips like he can’t contain it.

“You just gotta say it, Icy,” Larry says, half-muffled with the way he’s yet to stop kissing every frozen part of Jordan he can reach, grinding against him like he’s gotten tired of waiting. “Just say I’m better than Henry and I’ll be on my way to that hunt you promised.”

Jordan gasps.

The mission pales in comparison to how close he is. How desperately, deliciously close he’s gotten, tethering on the verge of release. He’d say anything. “Yes,” he breathes out, nodding over and over. “Yes– _Please_ , Crusher, I’m–” A sob when Larry pinches a nipple, the jolt of it nearly too much as his cock jerks in Larry’s grip. “Yes, you– you’re– better.”

If it’s the truth, Jordan can’t tell. He means it as it happens. It should be enough.

For the longest time, Larry merely considers it, makes a show of it, too – taps his fingers on Jordan’s thigh, holds steady as he thinks. “Fine,” he decides, eventually, “only ‘cause you’re pretty when you cry.”

And Jordan does just that as he comes in Larry’s hand, shaking hard and drowning in the sensation. At last, he goes limp against Larry, eyes glassy and unfocused, all the pleasure wrenched out of him. It’s _different_ but no less severe, nearly too much even now. He unceremoniously lays down and pulls Larry along, clinging tight. “Just give me a second and I’ll– um–”

“Hey,” Larry starts, nudging Jordan until he rolls over to face him, “you did great, bud.”

Jordan smiles, easy like these things never are.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "can i request henry being present as moral support for jordan as he gets wrecked by crusher?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place somewhere before the show but after SPORTCICLE: ORIGINS and EARLY ICEWAVE

It’s not often that they end up back at Henry’s place, piling on the leather couch in his study while Larry takes it upon himself to offer up an unnecessary play-by-play. As far as heists go, it’d been a particularly successful one. No arrests, a couple bruises and the machine parts Dr. Ito had requested safely handed over in record time.

The field, as it happens, is usually what Jordan’s dubbed _gym rat territory_ , rarely breached nowadays. Still, an already small window of opportunity had been closing and Paula had been busy smoothing things over at the school after an incident involving Artemis and the latest coach. Whatever form that took, Jordan wasn’t all that eager to learn the details but he’d agreed to join Larry in this latest venture to secure the future of Project: New America and he’d even managed to drag Henry along, for old times’ sake. That, too, had been something of a surprise. After the fall of the JSA, Jordan had found it difficult to talk Henry into much of anything. A coordinated effort is significantly harder to navigate than occasional fumbles in the dark.

“–and when that security guy slipped on your ice and knocked himself out? Bud, I’m telling ya, that’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve–”

“We were there, _Lawrence_ ,” Henry says, apparently sick of the replay or Larry’s excitement or, most likely, a nauseating combination of the two. For everyone’s safety, Jordan’s sitting between them but then again, that’s always been the case.

“It was pretty funny,” he admits and gives Larry an unconvincing smile. It’s not intended that way.

There’s very little chance of uninvited guests and it’s late enough that Jordan doesn’t fear the possibility of Hank wandering around. As a matter of fact, he fears very little just now, coasting on the pure adrenaline of a job well done. He’s nearly forgotten the feeling, though it strikes him that they must make quite a sight – full costumes still on, with the sole exception of Larry’s mask and most of his protective gear, the vast majority of which is spread between the doorway and the couch in a clear trail. Jordan laughs, a little drunk on the victory and the closeness and the abrupt realisation of just how easy it’d be to pretend they could’ve had this all along.

Back in the day, no one had dared. Past heartbreak and suffocating grief, Jordan thinks he just might.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

“Right?! It’s hilarious!” Larry slides an arm around Jordan’s shoulders and pulls him close until the whole mess of black paint smeared around his eyes gets blurry. It takes Jordan a second to understand he’s being kissed.

And another moment to realise it’s right in front of Henry.

He makes a questioning noise into the kiss, even as his eyes fall closed of their own accord. It’s– Larry’s a good kisser, never half-hearted, thorough and eager like he could go at it for hours and Jordan likes all that intensity directed at him. All the same, he’s flushed when he pulls back, wrenched into reality as Henry clears his throat. Jordan’s got no good explanation for the way frost crawls across his cheeks. He doesn’t have it in him to face Henry either.

“Aw, bud, don’tcha think Icy did great?” Larry asks, thankfully and chronically immune to anything approaching embarrassment. He tilts his head, his grin’s all teeth when he looks at Henry and winks. “Hell, _I’d_ say tonight calls for some sorta celebration!”

—

Jordan doesn’t, in all honesty, think Henry agrees on the celebration front. At this very minute, an argument could be made that he doesn’t _think_.

Full stop.

He’s ended up in Henry’s lap, held in place by the arm he’d snaked around his waist. It’s a precarious position, there’s a bony fragility to Henry up-close that worries Jordan, makes him shift in place like he can’t allow himself to rest his full weight on Henry on the off-chance of causing discomfort. It’s _stupid_. He’s been telepathically informed of that enough times to make it stick but not erase the concern.

“Keep them legs open, champ.” Larry guides him easily, the inexplicable charms of a man who knows what he’s doing. A seasoned personal trainer, if nothing else. Jordan hadn’t expected to be the main attraction, let alone find Larry on his knees, too blue eyes staring up at him. There isn’t anything– _submissive_ about the gesture. Jordan hasn’t ever felt more on display, the realisation that he’s at Larry’s mercy not unlike the dawning understanding of having stepped into the proverbial wolf’s den. He sees rather than feels the ice trailing down his own chest, spider-webbing across flushed skin and leaving behind frozen patches, nearly odd like his body’s cracked open with the overwhelming frost.

Growing uncomfortable with the leather of Henry’s suit and the worries that are yet to be ignored, Jordan squirms in place, notes his own chilly breath in the dim light when Larry slaps his thigh to keep him still and upsets some of the ice that’d gathered there.

“Are you _melting_ on my parquet?”

Henry says it with all the conviction of a capital offence and underneath Jordan’s urgent need to apologise, Larry bursts out laughing. It sends him into the kind of hysterics that have him resting his forehead against Jordan’s knee, wiping away tears when the laughter won’t stop. Fighting through a smile of his own, Jordan noses at Henry’s neck in lieu of an apology. It’s rejected with a faint, telekinetic push and only then does Jordan remember he must be too cold for Henry’s taste. Not an altogether uncommon occurrence.

The ice is tricky enough to manoeuvre when it flares up with the ebb and flow of sentiment, let alone in the middle of–

At some point, momentarily unnoticed, Larry’s recovered and taken it upon himself to lick a stripe up Jordan’s cock. It doesn’t, in fact, provide much help with the freezing issue. Jordan gasps, breathless like it’s punched out of him, and it’s all that more intense when Henry’s grip around his waist tightens, fingers digging into his side.

There’s layers and layers to the Brainwave costume, it’s only Henry’s laboured breathing – loud in his ear, close all at once – that betrays any trace of arousal.

_Don’t freeze._

Jordan whimpers at the odd sensation in his mind, the fact that the ice has spread too far already and he doubts he’s got the willpower to reel it back in. Henry’s disappointment is not new but always palpable. It’s hard staying still.

“Icy, ya really gotta take it easy one of these days.”

And that’s Larry, tremendously amused even now, as he swallows the entire length of Jordan with no warning to speak of. Oh, _god_. Jordan wants to scream at the unaccountable _heat_ of Larry’s mouth and sincerely hopes he doesn’t, hips rocking up despite Henry’s best efforts. It’s been– he’s rarely on the receiving end of this particular act, the warmth of it often proving too much to handle and tonight’s no different to a man practically made out of ice. It’s tantamount to torture and all too intoxicating. He does bury his face in the crook of Henry’s neck then, both distantly apologetic about the ice and unable to help himself, kissing any part of Henry he can reach when he’s not simply panting against him. Jordan has very little dignity left, he’d quite like to cling to it.

To his credit, Henry scoffs at this frantic desperation and Jordan’s very nearly willing to buy the disinterest if not for the way he seems equally entranced by Larry, the casual control he exudes with every movement. There must be some secret pleasure in it, something that’d made Henry agree in the first place.

The thought is enough for Jordan. He’s teetering on the brink as it is, well aware he’s in for a long night. It’s one of their better ones.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Pretend Brainwave/Icicle - RUMOURS - "Jordan and Henry have been roommates for years. They're NOT dating, but no one has to know that." [Bonus points: a HIM?! moment from disappointed ice parents, being asked advice about their relationship, or a moment of prejudice against them]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone sick of these yet? too bad cause theyre gonna keep coming :/
> 
> early days, pre-fully formed isa. going off the assumption sofus was the og ice gun icicle

It takes a couple knocks and the incessant ringing of the doorbell to get Jordan rushing to the door, slip-sliding in socks on the hardwood floor. For the longest time, once he’s reached his destination, he stands there in his pyjamas and sleep-mussed hair and doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. It’s unlike him to forget.

“ _Lenge siden sist_ , _sønn_ ,” says Sofus. He and Lily share twin smiles, held back from a hug by sheer virtue of the fact that Jordan has – figuratively, for once – frozen in place.

No, no, no, _no_.

It can’t be today. Jordan’s sure he’d jotted down the date somewhere, excited to see his parents for the first time since the holidays, pleasantly content with the thought of showing off the little life he’s built for himself and the apartment and a best friend that’s taken a leave of absence every time he’s been asked-slash-begged to tag along. A year since he’s left home and the rebirth of the Injustice Society of America has started taking shape. It’s enough for a vague air of self-satisfaction, a desire to prove he’s worthy of taking on his father’s name.

None of that had included anything less than perfection. Jordan likes his plans to hold up to the light.

He glances back at what can be seen of the living room where he’s holding the door open just a crack and cringes at the stack of medical textbooks on the coffee table, the abandoned cups of coffee and the endless papers Henry’s left behind. The place tends to be neat and tidy by mutual preference alone, far from the typical bachelor pad, it’s just– today’s been… busy.

Oh, god.

Maybe Jordan _did_ forget.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” he starts, springs into action with the kind of panicked grace that has Jordan nearly slamming the door into his own face before he swings it open enough to draw his mother into a hug. “I completely forgot, I mean– I didn’t but then– Henry wasn’t feeling great and I–”

This halfway deranged rambling gets, thankfully, interrupted in due time.

“I don’t know what language you’re thinking in but I can hear you from the bedroom– Oh.”

And that’s Henry, who’s also got pyjamas on and his hair is all loose, messy curls like he’s been running his fingers through it. Come to think of it, he probably has, might’ve even woken up when Jordan had clambered out of bed to investigate the sudden company. Jordan knows what it looks like and knows what it isn’t but the two notions refuse to come together in any reasonable form of denial when Lily mouths _him?_ in Norwegian and Jordan feels frost crawling up his cheeks. He’s got enough ice coming to make an apocalyptic wasteland out of the whole building, he can feel it fighting to burst out of him.

There’s a simple explanation that deigns to get more complicated as it runs laps around Jordan’s head.

Henry had woken up with a migraine, an unfortunately common side-effect of his growing powers, and Jordan had wanted to help despite the way his heart had leaped in his chest at the thought, the distinct pleasure of being needed that’s never been anything a friend should feel. They’ve come to refer it as _the ice thing_ , this little trick Jordan’s developed to numb the pain. It works just fine, unspoken intimacy included even when Henry’s dozing off on him. Jordan just hadn’t realised it’s taken the better part of the day until… well, _now_. There’s something like guilt prodding at the back of his mind.

“No, no, we’re not– Actually, um, could you come by later? I’ll call you!” Jordan’s smiling wide but it might be the saddest attempt the world’s ever seen.

At the very least, his parents merely exchange a look and nod. There could be more to be said about it, Jordan wouldn’t know because he slams the door shut without entirely meaning to and cringes at the sound. His hand’s frozen to the handle.

“We’re not _what_ , Jordan?” Henry asks, sharp or otherwise offended about the interruption.

Jordan sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *trans: long time no see, son (norwegian speakers dont kill me, i googled it extensively)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Prompt: scrabble night between early ISA, Henry, Jordan, Larry- perhaps right after Larry joins the team?? With or without flirting, dealers choice! Bonus points if somehow, much to Brainwave’s chagrin, Larry is the winner :D"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY VERY EARLY ISA. I'M SORRY IT TOOK ME LITERAL YEARS (AND SORRY IT SLIGHTLY SUCKS)

As far as evenings with this nascent revival of the Injustice Society of America go, it’s a quiet one. Larry and Henry have taken over the beat-up couch in an already cramped-looking living room, a game of Scrabble spread out between them. A particularly intense affair, Jordan would venture to say from his vantage point at the foot of the couch, balancing a notebook on his knees and occasionally dodging the chip crumbs Larry keeps attempting to wipe on him. It’s–

Not nice, exactly. _Warm_ might be better suited, familiar though it’s only the third time Jordan’s gotten the infamous Sportsmaster to come over to the apartment he shares with Henry. These days, it doubles as an unwilling headquarters for the ISA, mostly constructed out of hopes and dreams and Jordan’s very own blind optimism. They’re getting there. It’s a good start, he thinks.

“Y’know,” Larry starts, dealing a devastating blow in the form of _quiz_ – worth too many points for Henry’s comfort, “I’m missin’ out on a hot date for this.”

Jordan sincerely doubts that, not because Larry isn’t– Larry ‘Crusher’ Crock very much _is_ the kind of person who both says and participates in things like _hot dates_ but the idea that he’s missing out on anything at all in favour of time spent here is merely too much to handle at the present moment. Jordan and Henry hardly have many prospects in matters of friendship, it strikes him as unlikely that Larry’s ever suffered a dull moment in his life. Instead of anything as tragic as voicing that thought, Jordan coughs.

“Well, it’s an important meeting,” he says and only barely believes it. He startles when Larry pets his hair, one of those _keep telling yourself that, pal_ gestures, a hint less condescending than the words would’ve been.

“And I’m supposed to be studying for an exam,” Henry adds, unhelpful. “Can we just play?”

“Med school, huh? Boy, that’s gotta suck.” Larry doesn’t sound particularly interested nor sympathetic. Amused, if nothing else, which isn’t new but sufficiently exciting for Jordan’s lacklustre standards.

“Not particularly.”

Henry shoots Jordan a look that’s presumably meant to convey some level of annoyance and/or, more acutely, blame. Jordan merely smiles in response, scribbles down a couple things in his notebook and adds to the ever-growing itemized list there.

Eventually, Larry does concede and makes his move, which only serves to provoke another exasperated sigh out of Henry, no doubt owing to some newfound competitive streak. Jordan had been preoccupied with dinner when it’d all started and he’s yet to understand the complexities of how it’s gotten to this point. As a matter of fact, he can’t picturing anyone present opting for board games at all, and that’s with the full knowledge of the sheer number of times Henry’s beaten _him_ at Scrabble.

It’s a tight race, Jordan can tell that much even with most of his attention on his notebook and a certain rough draft growing rougher by the minute. A couple of lines have been crossed out, rewritten and crossed out again. He’s had better nights.

“Whaddya say, Brainy? What do I get if I win?” Larry asks and Jordan hardly gets any time to register any possible – or _im_ possible – implications before he finds himself hauled up by his underarms like he weighs next to nothing and placed squarely on a very warm lap. _Larry’s_ very warm lap. For the longest time, Jordan fails to comprehend what’s happened. He’s staring at Henry, he realises belatedly, blue eyes gone wide. Throughout the whole affair, he’s somehow managed to hang onto his notebook, clutched with both hands.

And Jordan freezes, in more ways than one. In an instant, frost spreads out across his cheeks, too aware of the precarious position, of the fact that it’s– Jordan’s never– no one’s ever gotten this close before.

He doesn’t _not_ like it.

To the first-time observer, the ice must make a bizarre sight. Henry’s seen it before but Jordan catches him staring back, frowning at the way his skin cracks open with the cold, as if crystalline tendrils of ice had been waiting just beneath a façade of normalcy. If _he_ feels the sudden drop in temperature, he’s not sure Larry does.

In hindsight, Henry might just be making a face at Larry. The act in itself strikes Jordan as too casual, makes him wonder whether it’s the kind of thing Larry does with all his friends.

“You can have _him_ ,” Henry decides, “but you’re not winning.”

“Hey!”

That’s all it takes for Jordan to come to his senses and squirm his way out of Larry’s grip. He sort of crashes inelegantly to the floor with the telltale sound of shattering glass, which sends Larry into genuine hysterics for a moment too long. “Did you… _break_?!” he asks, laughing breathlessly.

It’s a rare stroke of luck that the ice on Jordan’s face has mostly melted away by now or, otherwise, slid to the floor in that sudden burst of movement. “No!” He faces Larry to prove it, still a little wide-eyed. “I just froze! It, uh, happens sometimes.” It’s the truth, too. He can’t tell whether it makes it any less embarrassing. Jordan’s had his powers for as long as he can remember, instinct remains difficult as ever to tamp down.

The evening descends into further chaos when Larry proceeds to play _yowza_ and thoroughly annihilate any hopes Henry might’ve had of winning at Scrabble. Immediate indignation pushes him into action. “That’s not even a word!” Henry insists, the game board hovers in mid-air while he’s at it and Jordan can’t tell whether it’s intentional or simply telekinesis gone intro overdrive.

“Oh, yeah?” Larry challenges, crossing his arms. “Why don’tcha get a dictionary and prove it, huh?”

“You know what?”

“What?”

A staring contest ensues. Jordan’s distantly glad to have ended up back on the floor and away from the worst of it.

“I think I _will_.”

Henry stalks off to his bedroom with a huff and the board falls back on the couch, spilling letters everywhere. The game’s done as it is. Jordan blinks a couple times, mildly startled by the turn this evening’s taken. When Larry faces him, he very nearly expects it. “So, what’re you workin’ on there, bud?”

“Oh!” Jordan feels himself smile, pleasantly surprised by the sudden interest. “It’s just a couple ideas for the ISA constitution. I mean, the world’s going to need it when we change everything for the better, right? Here, you can take a look.” He hands over the notebook, misses the barely restrained amusement, Larry’s eyes bright with it.

He doesn’t, however, account for Larry reading it out loud.

“Abolish homophobia? I keep telling ya, champ, I can help with that,” Larry laughs and keeps on reading. “Universal healthcare. Uh-huh. No discrimination– yada yada yada. Something in whatever language. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Ban daylight savings? You’re a weird li’l dude, Icy.”

“Thank you… ?”

With the notebook back in Jordan’s grasp, they resolve to wait for Henry in silence.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sportsmaster/Icicle - EXPLICIT - "It all started with a dick pic." [Pics that quickly turn into videos, bonus points if Jordan recognizes himself or someone else, Larry being a sneaky ass camera man]"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place a year before the show, references jordans speech abt small towns in ep 3 (sorry for not quite following the prompt + the angst! i hope it's still readable!!)

It starts on one of Jordan’s business trips. He’s not glad to go, never is, but there’s always the faintest trace of relief rendered almost indistinguishable by the guilt that overtakes it. Cameron is fifteen and Jordan doesn’t want him missing school, though he asks over and over to come along and it’s not rare that Jordan very nearly gives in. It’s a bad idea to begin with, he’d only felt worse with the look his father had thrown his way and the few words his mother had offered on behalf of _the_ mission.

He’s torn his life apart for the mission. By now, a year away from the end, Jordan’s grown sick of the promised revenge. He would’ve liked Cameron by his side, thinks about it the whole drive over – the places they might’ve stopped at, the sights they might’ve seen.

For Cameron, Jordan would give it all up.

It’s late when he makes it to the hotel. More of a motel, really. Even so, it’s the best his grand tour of small towns tends to be capable of offering. Jordan doesn’t mind and doesn’t particularly think he deserves more, even if he can afford it.

Tomorrow, he’s going to pitch _Project: New America_ – the part that’s all his, the plan to revitalise these forgotten little communities and approach the problem piece by piece – in the town hall and hope for the best. The day after that, he’ll make the drive down to Opal City and see what’s left of Bannerman Chemicals. The missions are not immediately distinct, they often inform the other yet diverge in vital places. Before Christine, Jordan had just wanted to help people. He still does. It’s hard to see Dr. Ito’s machine as synonymous with _help_.

He takes no pleasure in the killing of those responsible either, inevitable as it’s become. Jordan hates to think of himself as bound to the vow he’d made to his dying wife and finds that it pains him to think of it at all. A wound too fresh, even now.

Without the picture on his nightstand, the Christine in his mind is the Christine of those last few months and the way she’d steered clear of the ideals they’d spent so long on in favour of an embittered desire for revenge. Jordan understands and, when he’s allowed the honour, wishes that it hadn’t come down to him to enact it.

Left alone with his doubts, Jordan checks twice that he’s locked the door, strips down to his briefs and an old t-shirt he’s taken to sleeping in and proceeds to lay awake for an agonising half-hour.

It’s only once he’s come to terms with the impossibility of sleep that Jordan reaches out for his phone and sends Henry a quick text. He won’t get a reply because he never does but Jordan’s found some private amusement in the matter after how long it’s been going on, decidedly does not secretly despair every time he goes through a mostly one-sided conversation log. In fact, when his _made it to the hotel :) how are you? ❄️❄️❄️_ goes unanswered, Jordan sends much the same thing to Larry and tries his best to ignore the quiet of the room.

Miraculously, a text comes through in a matter of minutes. It’s encouraging, Jordan feels the abyss recede just enough to breathe again.

 _Same old over here, baby! Paula got invited to a bake sale at the school and I’m p sure she’s gonna kill bowin_ , reads Larry’s answer, abruptly and vividly full of life. Jordan wants the distraction so bad he can barely contain a smile. He knows how the ISA as a whole feels about these trips, has heard the whispers of intentional delays and wasted time. The lack of precisely that is pleasant in itself, Jordan even wonders whether Larry’s in bed as well.

 _oh no 😔_ , Jordan sends back and then thinks to add, _should i talk to Anaya?_

As long as he keeps moving, he thinks, there’s no room for doubt. It’s always easy to get lost in the rhythm of Larry’s enthusiasm.

_Nah. you got something else on your mind, dont you, Icy?_

Jordan doesn’t, frankly, expect the picture that follows. He chokes on his own spit and spends several long, embarrassing moments engaged in a coughing fit that gets him sitting up in the interest of survival. That’s definitely a– distraction. He picks up his phone from where it’s gotten lost amongst the sheets and risks a glance at a screen that shows three other photos have manifested in his absence.

They’re all– it’s just– Jordan recognises his own face screwed-up in pleasure, eyes shut tight and mouth hanging open in some wordless plea. He sees the hints of frost tracing the contours of his cheekbones and knows that in the here and now, it can’t be anything less than solid ice. He startles himself into an especially humiliating whimper and dials Larry’s number in an instant.

“When did you–”

“Last week,” Larry says, easy. Jordan can hear the grin in his voice. He must’ve had his phone on hand. “Pretty, huh?”

Fighting the urge to check again, Jordan bites at his lip until he tastes a hint of copper. “La– _Crusher_ , we never talked about…” and here he inexplicably lowers his voice, “… pictures. You can’t show these to any–”

“Whoa, hey!” It’s not hard to imagine Larry shaking his head, shark-like smile firmly in place. “Bud, c’mon, I would _never_! Hell, I wouldn’t even send ‘em to Brainy or anything. I just wanted to, y’know, commemorate the occasion an’ all that since you said you were gonna be gone a while. I thought you could use some fun. Don’tcha think so?”

It’s better than the crushing weight of what feels like the premature failure of his faith in the project he’s spent the past decade on, better than an empty hotel room, too. Jordan props up a pillow and settles back against it.

“Yeah,” he decides, glad for the company despite the distance, “I guess you can, um, keep them.”

“Now we’re talkin’!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Does Henry use his telekinetic powers during sex? If so, may we have a drabble 🙏"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sincere apologies for the unplanned angst

There’s nothing warm nor welcoming about Henry’s bedroom. It lacks the kind of personal effects Jordan can’t go without and seems immense in its emptiness. Still, Jordan’s glad to sink into the king-sized bed and glad it’s _here_ and not elsewhere – up against a wall in the study, over an uncomfortable mahogany desk, the risky confines of his own office. Tonight, he even gets the rare pleasure of seeing Henry up-close, face-to-face for the first time in too long.

It’s a _fluke_.

Luck, in the right light, that it’s been an uncommonly pleasant evening, that they’re here because they’d grown bored with late-night discussions of the project and not because it had been the easiest way to resolve any undue arguments. Jordan’s feeling downright fond, dangerously close to an unspoken dream.

Henry doesn’t seem to share much the same sentiment. His thrusts are rhythmic, methodical as always, where he’s buried deep in Jordan and he’s frowning down at the frost dusting his cheeks, the desperate gasps that make it past Jordan’s lips when his cock rubs against Henry’s stomach where it’s trapped between them. Bordering on too much with the way he’s been hard and leaking since Henry had told him to get ready – often unwilling to do the honours himself, Jordan fights an instinctual urge to close his eyes against every jolt of pleasure. Henry’s too close, he doesn’t want to miss a minute of it.

_Don’t freeze._

By now, Jordan knows the drill. It doesn’t stop him from flinching at the unnecessary intrusion, the odd sensation of Henry’s voice in his head. He clenches around Henry without meaning to, swallows down the moan it provokes, and looks up, terrifyingly earnest in the midst of unacknowledged intimacy.

As far as Henry’s concerned, only one of them is allowed to use his powers in bed. It’s an arrangement Jordan puts up with out of necessity, though it hurts to rein in the cold when emotion brings it to the surface, keeps him nearly too tense to let go.

“I’m not freezing– I–” Jordan moans in time with a particularly punishing thrust and because he still dares to hope in spite of his best interests, he reaches out to cup Henry’s face. He _tries_ to, at any rate. Maybe it’s a gesture that runs a touch too tender, maybe Henry senses that aborted movement and puts an immediate stop to it. Jordan doesn’t know. What he does, however, become acutely aware of is the fact that he can’t budge an inch.

It’s panic that sets in when Jordan finds his arms moving of their own accord, wrists abruptly pinned above his head by some invisible weight.

Jordan looks to Henry for anything resembling an explanation as his breathing picks up, uncomprehending and wide-eyed. The sudden pressure doesn’t ease, though he can feel the heat of Henry’s hands on his hips, fingers digging in as he grips him tight.

Telekinesis, Jordan realises and shudders when Henry chooses then and there to get a hand around his cock. Few coherent thoughts are left.

“Stop fidgeting and I’ll let go,” Henry says, only slightly out of breath. It’s hard to tell what prompts this rare reassurance. If Jordan’s making a face at this mounting trepidation, it can’t be any easier to control than the ice Henry dislikes so much. All the same, it doesn’t drown out his arousal, the fact that he’s approaching the edge despite himself. Henry doesn’t stop moving either.

“Please,” Jordan pants out, eyes screwed shut against the pain-pleasure of it all. It’s almost too much of an effort to merely lay there and take it, very nearly hyperventilating. “Please, Henry, I need–”

He needs the unreality of the unseen grasp around his wrists to fade much more than he needs to come.

Ultimately, he gets both.

_Do it then._

It’s enough for Jordan to come with a stifled sob, biting hard at his bottom lip and turning his face towards the nearest pillow. He doesn’t know if it’s what Henry wants but it can’t be all bad when Henry gasps out his own release a moment later and Jordan finds that he can move again.

“I thought you’d like it,” Henry admits, already on his way to the en-suite. It might be the closest he’s ever gotten to an apology.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Prompt: Alive!Alan has his two kids, and lives in BV with everyone else. Jen, probably not Todd lbr, is on the same team as Artemis, and Larry makes it his business to try to land this hot blond who is obviously ignoring him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to change some stuff around so its a lil bit closer to canon, alan doesnt live in bv etc. post s1 finale

The diner is a Blue Valley original, must’ve been kicking around for years long before Jordan had made it into town all starry-eyed and coming off the heels of the JSA’s miraculous defeat. Hell, it’s probably why he’s chosen _Nowhere, Nebraska_ as their base of operations in the first place – Jordan’s spent his whole life nursing a chronic tendency to fall for that Norman Rockwell, All-American bullshit of a world that never was.

Larry doesn’t get the specifics of it, doesn’t like the diner much either no matter the rave reviews that keep getting thrown his way from everyone around and rare visitors alike. It’s not some health freak thing, though Larry’s under the firm impression that it’s his own business if that _was_ the case, but rather the constant reminder of what this town with its _Little House on the Prairie_ sensibilities isn’t.

It’s no Gotham, for a start.

Now, if going down to the diner meant getting served by a relic of a waitress that’s been no doubt chain-smoking since early childhood and the whole place smelled like it’d been deep-fried twice over, Larry would be all for it. _That’s_ a diner. It’s Gotham tradition not to trust any restaurant that thinks itself above being a literal hole-in-the-wall.

As luck would have it, Larry’s walking past the offending place just now because Blue Valley believes in having every single business on a literal Main Street like it’s yet to move on past the 1900s. He’s on his way to Ripped City, which does sweeten the deal most mornings, and his light jog is accompanied by this fascinating internal monologue that comes to an abrupt and sudden stop in the face of the impossible. Larry stops in his tracks.

“No freakin’ way,” he mumbles and takes out his earbuds in what he’d call one of those instinctively idiotic attempts to see better. Wasting no time in laughing at himself, Larry steps closer to the diner’s window and squints at a reality he doesn’t– _can’t_ make sense of.

Fact of the matter is that he’s seen his fair share of heroes. There’s nothing humiliating about a defeat at the hands of the JSA Jr. when that used to be par for the course in the heyday of the _real_ Justice Society of America. It’s probably why Larry’s bounced back quick enough, decidedly in action a couple months after that momentous occasion when he and Paula had decided there’s no real reason to put Artemis through the stress of changing schools after all.

The ISA is on something of a hiatus, sure, but Larry suspects an extended break will do Jordan some good whenever he finally decides to come outta hiding and, if nothing else, they could do with a less neurotic would-be leader. As always, he’s pleasantly willing to see it through out of a sense of novelty.

Point being, other than his own prevailing existence, Larry doesn’t see any reason for any big shots to be hanging around their neck of the woods and he doesn’t see any reason for dead men to be struggling with a travesty of an apple pie either. It’s not the neon-green teenage girl Larry’s spent these past few minutes staring at, as much of a worthy contender as she is in her drab surroundings.

For the first– well, it might just be the second time _total_ , Larry walks into the diner with the kind of determination he reserves for the field.

There’s nothing unassuming about the blond man sharing the last booth on the right with the aforementioned teenage girl and a boy with mousy brown hair that can’t be any older than her. Larry would recognise that face anywhere, the roll of his shoulders, his _voice_. For one thing, no one’s that big. He approaches without thinking, eyes wide at a surprise almost too good to be true.

The Green Lantern looks up halfway through a laugh and says, all traces of amusement fading like they’d never been there to begin with, “You.” 

It’s a delight to be recognised. An honour, even. Larry knows his grin’s gone a little manic and finds that he doesn’t mind it in the least. “Me,” he agrees, much more fond than any possible guidelines for the chance meeting of one’s most-likely-deceased nemesis would dictate. Variations on that exact sentiment sort of come spilling out. “Bud, I missed ya so goddamn much, you have no idea how boring it’s been without your nonsense. Jeez, it’s been too long! C’mon, bring it in, Green La–”

Being suddenly faced with the undeniable shock of Green Lantern’s full height gets Larry shutting up like nothing else.

“We’re taking this outside,” Lantern says, as serious as Larry’s ever heard him, and indifferent to the multitude of stares now directed at their little extravaganza, he turns towards the kids to add, “Todd, make sure Jennie doesn’t follow me.”

Past the girl’s indignant _hey!_ , outside seems to amount to the secluded alleyway behind the diner. Larry’s walked by Lantern’s side with no complaints, thrumming with an excitement he remembers well and doesn’t often feel nowadays. He doesn’t bother fighting a continued desire to grin nor appreciative glances over Green Lantern’s form. It’s always nice to mix business with pleasure, it only gets nicer when he finds himself slammed up against the nearest wall.

“Oof, someone’s all worked up.” Larry winks. “Missed me, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing here or how you tracked me down but you’re gonna regret it, _bud_.” The Green Lantern’s eyes are icy blue up-close and Larry’s absurdly reminded of the way frost swallows even the whites of Jordan’s eyes when he lets himself freeze all the way. All the same, even _he_ runs warmer than the present company.

“I live here!” Larry laughs, glances down at the forearm the Lantern’s got pressed hard against his sternum. Something stirs in him. “No, really, I do! My question is, Greenie, what are _you_ doing here?”

Lantern frowns at him, vaguely fascinating in his handsomeness with the way the sun catches in his blond hair and a jawline Old Hollywood can only dream of. Distantly, Larry thinks he’d like to bite him. It’s a thought that comes and goes in the interest of more immediate matters. “I’m looking for my lantern,” he admits, “I heard Stripesy took it.”

“Aw, what’s the matter, pal? Can’t take over satellites without it?”

Oh, Larry’s _missed_ this. No one hovers on the edge like Green Lantern does, he knows that for a fact. Then again, it’s never been wise to taunt him. The smell of ozone taints the air as Larry catches a flicker of green flame along Lantern’s arms for the briefest of moments.

“I can do a lot worse,” is what Lantern settles on and Larry’s grin only widens, wild-eyed with it.

He bites his lip and ruminates on the possibilities. They’re close enough that the woodsy undertone of Green Lantern’s cologne mixes with the scent of that brief show of power, Larry’s even got a couple ideas on how to close the distance between them. “So, are we gonna fuck or what?” he says, blunt as ever. It’s hard not to breathe out a laugh when Lantern jumps back like Larry’s dealt him a particularly low blow. Larry likes to think he spies a flush staining his cheeks.

“Listen, Sportsmaster, you’re not gonna tell anyone you saw me here, alright?” Coming from Green Lantern, who’s turned to leave already, it’s nothing short of an order. “Keep your mouth shut and maybe I won’t be taking it out on you if I can’t find my lantern.”

“Hey, ya know where to find _me_!”

Larry offers an eager little wave. He’s not, in fact, all that sure the Green Lantern does know where to find him. A problem for the future, then. His smile doesn’t falter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Icemaster/Sportcicle prompt: Larry’s POV: Larry cares, at least a little... not that Jordan would believe it. An attempt to steer Jordan into a healthier mindset is rebuffed. Maybe post-Brainwave in coma, or immediately before or after the season 2 finale?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> immediately after brainwave’s coma/wizard’s death. based heavily around [this neil jackson interview about episode 3](https://ufonaut.tumblr.com/post/633234703202353152/guys-this-neil-interview-had-rendered-me)

It’s the mention of ice that has Larry glued to the TV until midnight, enduring Denise Zarick’s tears and Sharpe’s stumbling statement on behalf of the American Dream with a decisive sort of bored indifference. It’s only a step above mindless channel surfing, a habit Larry’s never had and isn’t about to fall into now. Still, a fighting little thought compels him. They’d said, somewhere between all the whining about Councilman Zarick, that little Joey had slid on _ice_ when he’d been hit head-first. A slip of the tongue, maybe, but Larry’s heard of weirder things than snowstorms in September and he knows a certain someone’s expected into town.

By the time Larry crawls into bed and wraps an arm around Paula, he’s convinced himself of the obvious. “Pretty sure Jordan killed Wizard,” he mumbles into Paula’s shoulder and gets a kick for his trouble.

—

With the ISA, it’s often been a matter of novelty. Larry’s dedicated the vast majority of his time to the pursuit of seeing how it all plays out and he’s yet to regret it, even if he ends up speeding through his morning routine and runs a couple red lights on the way to drop off Artemis at school. He’s _excited_. There’s no other way to put it.

Henry’s out of the game for the foreseeable future and while Larry’s not about to pack up and take off at the first sign of disaster, he’s got an inkling of what it might mean for Jordan. For the plan, too. It’s nothing good. The inevitable carnage strikes him as invigorating. Beyond that, it’s been a little too long since Jordan’s graced Blue Valley with his presence and Larry has grown very nearly enamoured with the notion of his nonsensical plan, the way he seems intent on moving past impossibility on the stupidity of hope alone.

It’s _adorable_.

In Larry’s world, Jordan’s idealism ranks somewhere between kittens and the picture of Artemis, aged three and dressed like Jason Voorhees, he keeps in his wallet.

The drive to the Mahkent house drags on like never before, though the town’s frustratingly small and easily traversed blind. It’s not the enthusiasm of a hunt but it’s close enough to count, thoughts of Zarick’s death at the hands of a man Larry’s never once known to lash out swirling around his mind. Jordan is not a puzzle to be solved nor full of surprises but, every now and again, he manages to impress.

Larry parks in the middle of the driveway, almost certainly blocks any approaching or departing cars and, past awkward greetings exchanged with Jordan’s parents, takes the stairs two at a time. Blue Valley, located in the vicinity of nothing and nowhere, presents few means of entertainment. It’s only right to seize whatever opportunity comes his way, Larry’s even willing to settle for a second-hand look at all the gory details. Wizard has barely been considered a colleague, let alone a _friend_ , and with nothing to mourn, Larry likes to think he’s opting for the next best thing.

Ultimately, there’s no need to hurry.

Jordan’s bedroom is a dismal affair that carries the distinct impression of having walked into a darkened freezer to the bitter end. The minute he steps in, Larry’s greeted by the sight of his own breath in the chilled air.

“Hey there, bud,” he says, bright because he’s capable of little else, as he slams the door shut hard enough to knock some ice off. It’s hardly his intention, unaided by the cold. Somewhere underneath the frozen covers, Jordan stirs in bed. He’s perplexingly normal, a little worse for wear than Larry’s last seen him and passably in need of a shave but– not tinted _blue_ , for a start. “What, it just starts snowing when you’re moping around?”

For the longest time, Jordan seems to consider that. He makes a deceptively pretty picture in the midst of this snow-angel spectacle. “You didn’t call,” he decides, at last, hoarse with disuse.

In hindsight, the thought should’ve occurred to Larry much sooner. Jordan gets like this, disappears into the vacuum of a hole that’s been gnawing at him for nearly a decade now when he forgets to stitch his life together the best way he knows how. It’s guilt or remorse or a sadness that’s never been familiar to Larry. For convenience’s sake, it’s easier to wrench him out than see it through. Larry wouldn’t call it a great concern of his but he wouldn’t be running Ripped City if he didn’t harbour some passion for seeing people improve. He’d like that for Jordan, he thinks.

“Aw, Icy, I’m real sorry,” Larry says and clears a space for himself in the snow, sits close to where Jordan’s peeking at him owlishly from his frosty cocoon of tangled bedsheets, “we all just thought it’d be for the best if Sharpe broke the news. Y’know, so he could book you a plane ticket on the spot an’ all that. You wanted to come home right away, didn’tcha?”

Jordan nods, only slightly hesitant, and Larry takes it as permission to brush a hand through his hair. The cold mellows out.

“Listen, sure, Brainy’s out of commission just now but it doesn’t mean he’s gonna stay that way! You think a bump on the ol’ noggin is gonna take him out? C’mon, he’ll be back to annoying us in no time.” Larry chuckles and nearly believes it himself, though his grin’s all real at Jordan’s wet little laugh.

He props up a pillow and settles back, fingers still carding absently through Jordan’s hair. Larry hasn’t forgotten what he came here for, as much as it’s taken a backseat to the abrupt despair Jordan’s sunk into. “Hey, what’s the deal with Wizard anyway?” Maybe it’s the timing that’s all wrong, though Larry likes to think he always gets it right. Jordan stiffens and makes to turn, stopped only by the grip Larry’s got on him.

Eventually, he relents.

“I didn’t want– I can’t lose Henry, Crusher, not after–” _Christine_. It goes unspoken. Jordan’s breathing picks up like he’s fighting through an abrupt sense of panic. He pushes through it all the same. “The plan wouldn’t work without him. If William isn’t– wasn’t with us, then he was against us. Sacrifices had to be made for the mission, he was– he had his wand pointed at me, I– I had to do what’s right.”

Larry wants to laugh. Almost does, really. Jordan’s spiel must’ve been rehearsed a thousand times before, justifications upon justifications because he’s never quite learned not to let it get to him, because Zarick was a friend to him, because– he’s _himself_.

“Sure you did, champ,” he says, just nice enough.

On days like these, Larry’s all action. Not that it differs much from the norm. He takes a moment to pad into the en-suite bathroom and get the shower running. “Alright, Icy, here’s the deal,” he calls out from the bathroom, making sure the water’s all nice and hot, “I’m gonna get you ready for the day and you’re gonna put up with it. How’s that sound?”

“Crusher, you don’t have to–”

“Nah, I think I do.” Larry smiles and, as he makes it back to where Jordan’s sat up in bed, he offers a hand. There’s always a sense of accomplishment in the face of progress, be it out in the field or at the gym. “You just gotta shower and I’ll take care of the rest, bud. Hell, I’ll even dress you up, if ya need it.”

Something tells him it might just come to that.

He does yank Jordan out of bed then, a firm grip and enthusiasm to match. “C’mon, bud, you got this!” Larry says and slaps Jordan’s ass as he pushes him into the bathroom.

It’s a start, if nothing else.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a freebie, companion piece & sequel (all in one!) to @slaapkat‘s latest post-finale sportcicle drabble – find it on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185534/chapters/67341436) or [TUMBLR](https://slaapkat.tumblr.com/post/634635454015275008/polycule-prompt-angryfrustrated-jordan-maybe) here and please definitely read that first because this absolutely won’t make sense otherwise & possibly not even then. enjoy!

When Larry was a kid, he had this dog. Big ol’ Golden Retriever, Rocky or Jason or whatever-the-fuck he’d been obsessed with at the time, nothing going on behind the eyes ‘cept for an uncontainable passion for jumping into muddy puddles and a hatred of the inevitable baths that followed. It’s not the kind of thing that resides at the forefront of his mind but, as he kneels down in front of the bathtub and rolls up his sleeves, the memory stirs.

Jordan flinches under the spray of hot water and steam rises from the tub. He’s near-frozen to the touch, it’s no surprise.

“Thought I’d lost ya for a second there, bud,” Larry laughs, grateful for the sign of life, and eases off with no complaints. He turns off the showerhead and lets it float in the tub, halfway full with dirtied water. Jordan, to his credit, doesn’t squirm nearly as much as any barely-remembered childhood dogs.

It’s hard to tell whether Larry’s ever thought he’d find himself here, specifically. Then again, he hasn’t given life beyond the project much thought at all. He’d assumed a continuation of what’s become daily existence in this backwater town that’s got him missing Gotham like he’s starving for it and that’s– what he got, more or less.

No long cons here, no merc jobs for the time being when it might compromise Artemis’ future. They’re not the kind of priorities he’d imagined to be his own but, a decade or so since he’s joined up Jordan’s naïve crusade for the hell of it, he’s not complaining. Larry likes taking it day by day, rubbing it all in the JSA brats’ faces. It’s not like anyone can prove a thing, he’s free to stay at it with Ripped City and go on his late-night runs and keep an eye out for any ISA stragglers. With no stakes in the matter, he’s gotten a better deal outta it than present company.

The walk home had dragged on through no fault of its own. Larry had allowed Jordan as many backwards glances towards his frivolous little McMansion as he’d needed, had coaxed him every step of the way away from the second-floor window he’d been so fixated on.

He’s not missed Jordan exactly but there’s a degree of routine to his presence. By now, Larry’s spent more time with Jordan than without. There’s no reason to kick a winning streak to the curb.

“C’mon, champ, lean back a lil’ so I can rinse you,” Larry says and Jordan, miraculously, complies on the spot.

Larry isn’t one to mince his words. Jordan makes for a ragged, pathetic sight. In the warm bathroom light, he’s worse for wear than out in the woods, bruised and empty-eyed and plain haggard. _Weapons-grade exhaustion_ , Larry thinks again and cracks a smile at it. He washes Jordan’s hair and finds that it comes perfectly naturally. It’s not the kind of thing he’d do for just anyone but he doesn’t mean anything in particular by it either. Jordan is hurt and hurting, Larry’s here and free to waste time – a reasonable arrangement.

The ice-scar glints as Jordan moves, melts and freezes over and over, what must be a healing mechanism inherent to Jordan’s bizarre physiology fighting against the heat. Underneath, there’s the angry red of a near-infected wound. Larry’s not sure what he’s meant to do about it, if anything. “Does this hurt?” he asks, tapping Jordan’s forehead, right next to the scar where ice cuts from his hairline through his left eye and tamps down just above his lips.

“Only when it melts,” Jordan admits, voice rough with something other than simple disuse. “It just sort of– stings.”

“Alright.”

Safe enough for now, Larry hazards a guess. He helps Jordan sit up a little, all skin and bones underneath his hands. Boy, _that_ keeps tripping him up. “You wanna get rid of the beard?” At that, he cups Jordan’s cheek, grinning wide in preparation for what he’s about to say, often delighting in his own amusement. “Ruggedly handsome, I think they call it, bud.”

It gets a rare, real smile out of Jordan, wobbly around the edges, and a nod.

Coincidentally, it’s then the bathroom door swings open and Larry swivels around just in time to catch a glimpse of Paula walking in and right out again. He barks out a laugh, louder than intended. “We’ll be done in a sec, babe!” Larry calls out, standing up to get a razor while he’s at it.

—

With Jordan clean-shaven and dressed in a freshly-borrowed pair of sweats and a _Ripped City_ t-shirt, Larry gets him to the bedroom in no time at all, momentary promise to himself that he’ll take care of the disaster-zone that’s become the upstairs bathroom as soon as things settle down notwithstanding. It’s possible the girls have made themselves scarce in the meantime and Larry’s sure to thank Paula later, though he suspects she’s merely back in the basement fiddling with their equipment and sharpening her claws. They’ve all learned to cope in different ways.

“You gotta catch some z’s,” Larry points out, nudging Jordan’s shoulder and upsetting an already shambling attempt to get into bed, “I’m serious, bud, you look straight outta the Addams Family or something. Get some sleep, alright? Hell, it might get that gnarly scar healing, betcha you need the energy.”

Jordan huffs out something that’s nearly a laugh, close enough to count at any rate, and settles back against a pillow. He’s still barely present, eyes glazed over when he keeps staring at nothing at all. “Can you stay a while?”

The thing is– well, Larry’s done his duty. If he chooses to back out now, and he might, he knows well enough that Jordan won’t say a thing.

And yet, it’s not every day one gets crushed under the carnage of their own life. Jordan’s not doing admirably nor well but Larry likes that he’s stuck around in the ruins when Henry’s bailed out at the first chance he’d gotten, gone god-knows-where or, otherwise, buried in said ruins. Larry understands that the necessity of care had been hard to accept when Jordan has often fallen into that role himself and that what he’s asking is much closer to the familiar.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Larry starts, toothy smile and all, as he crawls into bed, “I’m _real_ busy today.”

For the longest time, they stay like that, Jordan’s face buried in Larry’s chest and his arms wrapped around him. He’s still chilly, Larry distantly notes, but it’s nothing like the corpse-like cold of an hour ago. Maybe Jordan had stopped regulating his temperature, too busy falling apart out there in the woods. “You asleep, bud?”

It takes Larry a moment to notice Jordan’s shaking, clinging tight. “Whoa, hey.” He moves back to get a good look at Jordan, tilts his chin up just in time to see Jordan’s face crumple pitifully, lip quivering until he pulls Larry close again and stifles a sob against his chest. On instinct alone, Larry rubs his back. There’s a distinct lack of expertise and a lifetime of sentimental indifference to bypass here, _this_ – isn’t the kind of helps Larry’s ever been willing to offer. Still, he’s no coward.

“C’mon, baby, lay it on me. What’s goin’ on?” he asks, aims for soothing and almost certainly misses. First time for everything.

“I forgot– I forgot how it felt to be this warm,” Jordan breathes out, hard to hear amongst desperate, gasping sobs. “I thought I’d just f-freeze and I’d never– I’d never be this close to anyone again– I’d just _freeze_ –”

At a loss of better ideas, Larry holds him, he doesn’t think there’s much else Jordan wants now that he’s let himself feel the full force of whatever personal apocalypse he’s suffered.

“I think it would’ve been easier if I had just– with Henry–”

Jordan can’t say it, not the whole thing, but he does draw in a shuddering breath and Larry’s shirt has grown wet with his tears. He doesn’t mind it, as much as he’s flying blind here.

“Hey, _hey_ , you gotta hold on for Cameron. You hear that, Icy– Jordan? You _gotta_ hold on for Cameron.” And Larry can’t see enough of Jordan to know whether it’s got any effect at all but he can feel his grip tighten around him like Jordan’s found a lifeline. An approximation of one, at least. “You’ve still got me an’ my gal too, y’know. They don’t call us –” Larry can’t help the faintest trace of a chuckle, “– Icicle’s attack dogs for nothing, I’ll tell you that much.”

A pledge of loyalty, in a manner of speaking.

For now, Larry’s content to let Jordan cry it out on him all night long if it comes to that. The usual sense of novelty persists.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sportsmaster/Icicle - PRAISE - "Larry notices that Jordan has a certain reaction when given compliments and wonders if this translates to the bedroom." ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"

Jordan likes the process of it, the in-betweens. There’s a momentous air of togetherness in the midst of cause-and-effect, that’s where he does his best work. Meetings are a personal favourite, he falls easily into the role he’s carved out for himself here, easier than in the field. It wasn’t always a formal affair, Jordan fondly remembers the days when ISA meetings had meant shared dreams in a tiny apartment in New York, back when he’d still been able to get a smile out of Henry and Larry’s teasing was well-worth the effort.

Here, in Blue Valley’s tunnels, the optics of it have changed but Jordan likes to think it’s still his genuine pleasure at assembling the pieces that’s pushed things along. No one else is willing to organise it all, he knows that well enough.

It’s why it stings faintly when Anaya checks her phone or Steven yawns and spares a wistful glance for the exit. It’s a Saturday afternoon, Jordan understands the reluctance but doesn’t feel it. In two hours, he’s taking Cameron to the movies. If _he_ can get through the meeting then so can anybody else, Jordan thinks and frowns a little, shuffling the notes he’s brought along – statistics, a proposal for the introduction of some form of free public transport in town and plans for the revitalisation of Blue Valley Park.

“I trust you all realise how everything we’ve discussed affects our children’s future–”

“Bud, this could’ve been a beautiful email. I’d have even bookmarked it ‘cause I’ve known you the longest,” Larry says– well, _interrupts_. Somewhere along the first half of Jordan’s speech, he’s dragged his chair closer to Paula’s and taken it upon himself to kind of rest against her. He seems downright languid when he glances up, rare and exasperating alike.

As a matter of fact, it’s really only Paula and Henry who’ve maintained a modicum of interest. The former might, however, be merely daydreaming about any upcoming hunts. Jordan doesn’t trust that smile.

“You never reply to my emails,” he points out, a note of sincere disappointment in his tone.

Larry makes a face, amusement barely kept at bay. “But I read ‘em!”

The look exchanged with Paula confirms Jordan’s suspicions that Larry does not, in fact, read his emails. He turns to continue, nearly wants to promise there’s not much left like he’s talking to a bunch of pre-schoolers. A look at Henry provides no reassurance, though the momentary scuffle gets just about everyone looking more awake than Jordan’s ever managed. It’s disheartening, at best.

By the time the meeting’s over, he fears he’s lost much of his will to think of the next one. Jordan waves goodbye to the majority of the ISA’s departing members and finds himself left with the usual suspects.

“You’re stalling,” Henry says, unprompted and abruptly behind Jordan, who takes good care not to flinch and does so anyway. An odd tendency towards _looming_ is one of the more common pieces in Henry’s repertoire, it doesn’t mean Jordan’s ever gotten a chance to grow used to it.

Nevertheless, he spends a distracted moment watching Larry press a kiss to the corner of Paula’s mouth and usher her away with a grin before he’s got the presence of mind to face Henry. “I’m not _stalling_ ,” Jordan starts, crossing his arms as if that’s ever likely to be a last line of defence against telepathy, “I just think those are actually important things to talk about when trying to–” He trails off with a perplexed look at Larry and the way he’s taken a seat right on the table, smile firmly in place. “Did you, um, want something?”

There’s something vaguely disarming to Larry as he tilts his head, seemingly considering what he’s seeing. Arguments are better kept behind closed doors, Jordan knows better than most and feels the wound of near-embarrassment at being caught in the act.

An air of confusion stretches taut.

Larry holds out his hands and stares unblinking until Jordan, throwing another cautious glance Henry’s way, takes them. “You did great today, champ!” Larry declares, bizarrely genuine. Then again, Jordan’s never seen anything less from him.

“Thank you… ?”

It’s come out of nowhere in every conceivable way. As far as Jordan knows, Larry had been well on his way to a nap less than twenty minutes ago. Henry, back into focus, quirks an eyebrow.

Never a good sign.

“I mean it,” Larry insists, bright-eyed. His grip on Jordan is unforgiving, his words nothing of the sort. There’s very little to be done about the faint impression of not being in on some joke undoubtedly thought up by their resident gym rats. “I mean, man, don’t get me wrong, I was bored to tears like everybody else but the way you made it through the whole thing an’ all that? You’re something else, Icy. So, yeah, you did good. Hell, you did _great_. Right, Brainy?”

The thing is Jordan doesn’t mean to acknowledge the flutter in his stomach, the pathetic reality of the ice undoubtedly threatening to spread across his cheeks in a matter of minutes, it’s just– it’s not the praise, exactly, but the recognition of the effort that goes into it all. He allows a smile, deeply and dangerously fond.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling for that,” Henry says, addressed solely to Jordan. Particularly unimpressed, too. “Now, if you’d let me explain–”

“Icy, I gotta say, your– like, your presence up there when you get really into your lil’ presentations? I’m real impressed, y’know,” Larry continues, indifferent to Henry and whatever plagues him now, “and the suit!” He wolf-whistles and pulls Jordan close by their intertwined hands.

Maybe it’s another way to alleviate the boredom Jordan has caused. He doesn’t know, he’s not all that sure he _wants_ to know. It’s nice and Jordan doesn’t often get nice, it can’t be all that bad to lean into Larry’s touch. He’s still smiling despite himself, grateful after a tangible foray into the heartbreak of apathy. Project: New America, in its originally envisioned form, matters more to Jordan than he’d ever let on. Disinterest strikes as hard as betrayal.

He looks at Henry again and can’t decide what he’s searching for. Approval, he thinks, would be too revealing. Frost does dust Jordan’s cheeks now, snow caught in his eyelashes like he’s been out in the middle of winter. There’s no point in hiding it.

“You’ve really got a way with words, bud. Whatta mouth.”

And at that, Larry reaches out to trace Jordan’s lips. The heat of his fingers melts through the ice, leaves streaks in the ever-growing blue tint of him. Beyond that, Jordan nearly shudders at the jolt of arousal _that_ sends through him, tension coiled tight as the moment holds steady. It’s nothing short of instinct that gets him taking Larry’s fingers into his mouth.

Larry laughs like it’s startled out of him, a soft exhale that veers into veritable amusement at the sound of footsteps. For his part, Jordan feels rather than hears Henry leave. The pressure at the back of his head eases and he gasps, what he’d attributed to a simple headache must’ve been Henry flexing his powers, poking and prodding at any stray thoughts. Jordan’s glad for the respite, tries in vain not to think about the implications of it. The desperation Henry must’ve heard or, worse, _sensed_.

“C’mon, no pouting,” Larry decides, not unkind, and proceeds to thoroughly kiss Jordan, hands settling around his hips. “You did good today, alright? Ya gotta trust me on this every now an’ again,” he adds as they part.

There’s very little time to waste. Jordan needs to believe Larry with the same ardent desperation he needs to trust in the possibility of the plan. If he falters, the illusion falls apart. He kisses Larry again, standing there between his spread legs where Larry’s still perched on the table, eyes screwed shut and eager for the closeness in a too-empty room. No one would walk in, not here, not after the meeting.

“You wanna be good for me, huh?” Larry’s amusement doesn’t wound and Jordan nods despite himself, his breathing’s turned visible by now. He leans into the hand Larry tangles in his hair, goes down on his knees like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Jordan doesn’t need to be told what to do as he leans forward, his mouth pressed to the front of Larry’s sweatpants. He’s half hard, Jordan’s not too far behind either. It’s not the most comfortable of positions, the table is the wrong height to begin with and Jordan finds it necessary to juggle with his balance, half-kneeling as he holds onto Larry’s thighs in a frantic attempt to reach him. To his credit, Larry holds him there, rocks his hips forward and grinds against his mouth as Jordan licks at the outline of his cock through the fabric.

Tentatively, he pauses just long enough to pull down Larry’s sweatpants and get his mouth around his cock. A cut-off moan is all the encouragement he needs, though Jordan delights in the way Larry pets at his hair, doesn’t pull as much as guide him. “You’re takin’ it so well, bud,” Larry remarks and Jordan’s cock aches at it, trapped beneath layers and layers.

It’s not loyalty to the plan nor the dream but Jordan wants it just as bad. He’s willing to accept what he can get, content with the turn this afternoon’s taken.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "BUDDY PROMPT: CRUSHER ASKS JORDAN IF HE EVER CONSIDERED SWITCHING IT UP :)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set very very early isa. the green lantern encounter is from [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185534/chapters/67298209#workskin) & jordan’s outfit with the silver jacket from neil jackson’s moodboard [here](https://ufonaut.tumblr.com/post/635505645916979200/so-we-know-that-jordan-was-not-fan-of)

Jordan knows his costume is nothing much. It’s comfortable, practical, halfway to militant in his well-worn combat boots. Uniform, not costume. He likes to think of it as a _uniform_. It all sounds good on paper.

And it’s certainly nothing like what his father had once worn in the early days of the Icicle name, armed with little beyond an ice-gun of his own invention. Jordan’s seen the pictures, he’s got scrapbooks full of Polaroids and newspaper clippings and enough veneration to spill over. The goal, however, had been different in the here and now. He’s not looking for easy marks and corner store hold-ups, he’s following a plan to a better tomorrow. Jordan has a _mission_. The fact that he’s currently doing laundry in preparation for a bank robbery is unrelated. He’s repeated that to himself a couple times in the interest of belief.

The ISA needs funding and, despite Jordan’s best intentions, that’s not easily overlooked. He’s still riding high on the exhilaration of last month’s mostly-almost-successful jewellery store hit in Gotham and though most of what they’d grabbed had ended up on the sidewalk during Larry’s mad dash for the car, they’d survived an encounter with _the_ Green Lantern. For Jordan, that’s the height of accomplishment.

Trouble is– well, there’s not much saving the world likely to get done with just three members, as much as Jordan’s enthusiasm fills most gaps. They need the money and the reputation that comes along with it, as much as they need the practice. Teamwork, too, has proved more difficult than expected.

It’s a small comfort that they’re on home-turf tonight, safe and sound in their shoebox apartment in New York with no threats of green fire hanging overhead. In a rare moment of mutual horror, both Jordan and Henry had agreed on prolonging the wait until the next inevitable superhero sighting as much as possible. Consequently, Larry’s made the drive over with no complaints and a backseat full of various sports and sports-related equipment, some verging on the obscure. It’s bound to be quite a night.

While Jordan’s busy contemplating his cos– _uniform_ , he spares a thought for the hope that Larry remains where he’s left him, polishing his favourite baseball bat on the couch and not enacting any acts of violence upon the papers and textbooks Henry tends to leave all over.

They’re all excited, in their own ways.

Henry, who suffers no pre-heist anxiety nor the kind of anticipation that gets Jordan nearly thrumming with it, had retired to his room the minute Larry had arrived. Jordan doesn’t know what to make of it, still nursing dreams of unbreakable friendships. More importantly, he’s considering calling in something of a general meeting, desperate to discuss the logistics of said heist before it’s too late.

“Can you even sweat?”

At that, Jordan practically jumps out of his skin and swivels around with what must be an extraordinarily wide-eyed look, ready to give any deer in headlights a run for its money. It’s Larry, looking perfectly at home leaning against the doorway, bat held loosely in one hand.

“Can I– _what_?” Jordan chokes out, thoroughly and incurably perplexed.

Larry nods to the dryer.

It’s another long moment of nerve-wracking silence before realisation dawns on Jordan. “Oh.” He thinks on that. “You’re asking because I washed my uniform…?”

“Yeah,” Larry agrees and doesn’t offer any more than that, smile firmly in place.

“Sometimes? I mean, I _can_ , it just depends on the– um, temperature, I guess. Fire usually does it, like with Green Lantern.” And because Jordan finds it necessary to explain himself under the intensity of Larry’s unblinking gaze, he adds, somewhat faltering, “I just wanted to be ready for tonight.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, listen, bud,” Larry starts, sliding an arm around Jordan’s shoulders and handing him the bat to hold while he’s at it, “have you ever considered switchin’ it up?”

Jordan, yet unused to the inner workings of Larry’s mind and coming off the heels of a social circle consisting solely of a telepath with a penchant for projecting his thoughts, can’t immediately figure out what he’s being asked. He shrugs, as much as he can with Larry’s grip on him at any rate. He glances down at the bat in his hands, feels honoured to have been allowed to feel the foreign weight of it.

“I mean, have you thought about switchin’ up your costume for something, y’know, less homeless?” Larry clarifies, not unkind. He’s still grinning, at odds with his words. Then again, who knows what’s at odds with the infamous Sportsmaster.

“No? It’s good for blending in and–”

Inexplicably, Larry presses a finger to Jordan’s lips and shushes him. “Why don’tcha wear one of those gay lil’ outfits you’ve got with that shiny silver jacket an’ stuff?”

A moment of deafening silence ensues. Jordan feels something not unlike grief crawling up his throat. Stages of grief, at the very least. He must be making the sort of expression that usually denotes a near-death experience, he thinks, because next thing he knows Larry’s holding his face, mildly forceful. “It makes me look _gay_?!” he splutters, at last.

“Did Jordan finally come out?” Henry asks, all polite disinterest as he walks into the kitchen and makes a beeline for a previously abandoned coffee.

As luck would have it, Larry bursts out laughing.

Maybe there’s still hope for Jordan’s dreams of friendship, abruptly urgent wardrobe changes aside.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Icicle/Author's Choice - OOPS - "Jordan accidentally says the wrong name in bed." [Permission to break my heart or make me laugh... or both!]"

When Jordan dreams of Christine, it’s sallow skin and sunken eyes that greet him. They’re rarely pleasant, these dreams. Nightmares. He feels her hand, cold though he knows that in reality he’d been the one half-frozen with grief, slip from his grasp all over again and panic chokes him into mournful silence. Jordan wakes up with a start, gasping loud like he’s forgotten how to breathe, and finds that his pillow has been assaulted by tendrils of ice somewhere along the line. He sits up.

A cursory glance at his phone reveals that he’s been out for two hours, at best, and a day spent ignoring the unendurable has led him nowhere fast. Jordan sighs, pushes his hair off his forehead with hurried desperation.

No, he hasn’t _ignored_ the occasion, not as much as he’s carefully navigated his way around the worst of it. Clearly, not well enough. The flowers on his nightstand are Christine’s favourite and it’s been the one piece of a private celebration that Jordan had allowed himself on the morning of their would-be anniversary. Beyond that, he’d taken Cameron to dinner and the drive-in and he’d laughed so much and felt so lucky to still have his son. The ache had faded. After Christine, Cameron’s always been his anchor and his reason.

 _I can do this_ , Jordan had thought as he’d watched Cameron dig into his dessert, nearly hysterical with the notion of having made it another year without– her.

Here, in the dark, the wound of Christine’s absence seems to have grown infected.

Jordan presses a hand against his mouth to stop a shuddering sob he knows won’t come and glances back down at his phone, finds no distractions amongst the emails piling up from the American Dream and not much else. He wants to reach out for the framed photo he keeps close, to trace the contours of Christine’s face and remember her as she was on her best days. Instead, as he stands up, Jordan grabs the closest pair of pants and an especially rumpled button-up and hopes against hope that he’s making the right choice.

—

“You look terrible,” Henry says, deeply engaged in some late-night paperwork.

He keeps odd hours, Jordan remembers not-quite-fondly from their days of shared apartments, and it’s no surprise to find him awake. It is, however, the first time Henry’s spared a glance for Jordan since he’d made it into his study, dishevelled and apologetic for having woken up the maid and permanently confused by her very presence in the King household. Jordan is yet to understand the necessity of a _maid_.

All the same, he startles when faced with the reality of Henry’s eyes on him. Jordan looks down at himself, holds firm in his resolve despite a sudden awareness of having buttoned up his shirt all wrong. “I’m sorry,” he manages and understands that he _sounds_ all wrong, too. There’s an edge there, the suffocating anguish of the nightmare. Around Henry, Jordan has never once managed to pass for even a shadow of a leader beyond a well of enthusiasm that had once seemed endless. Having lost too much of it, he flounders and sinks. Again and again. He’s got the distinct impression he’s apologised already.

“I need you,” Jordan adds. It’s humiliating that he has to say it at all, that Henry can’t just–

Henry _wants_ him to say it. There’s no way around it. He must know what Jordan’s here for, all that tightly-wound panic of him, like his body is yet to decide whether it’d be better to bolt and never look back. Jordan has made his choice. He takes a step closer to Henry’s desk and wants to cling to his friend of too long ago. “Please,” he whispers.

_You’ll have to wait until I’m done._

And Jordan winces at the intrusion in his mind and the sharp tone that’s felt rather than heard. He stays there nevertheless, thinks of Christine wasting away in his dreams and the way this can’t be anything short of betrayal. It stings, nowhere near distant.

—

Jordan’s gone hazy with the heat of Henry inside him. It’s a harsh and impersonal affair, dragged to the edge of the bed as he’s been and arranged into position with the subtle movements of phantom hands – Henry flexing his powers, no doubt – until there had been little for Jordan to do but press his face into the mattress and grip tight at the sheets. There’s not much to be seen of Henry behind him, though there’s a detached passivity to his thrusts, as if Jordan’s own pleasure is mere accident.

It might very well be.

The stark weight of Henry’s disappointment pushes down on Jordan each time he rocks his hips against the bed, desperate for friction where he’s been hard and leaking for longer than he cares to consider. He’s frantic with the need to get a hand around his cock and terrified of the impossibility of it.

“Can I–”

A particularly hard thrust has Jordan trailing off, momentarily fascinated by the punched-out moans that he soon discovers to be his own and the sight of his icy breath. It’s nearly enough to forget.

Until it isn’t.

Henry’s fingers digging into his hips do very little to abate the need for closeness tearing Jordan’s chest open. He knows– he _thinks_ Larry would have held him. It’s easy to imagine that half-condescending _aw, bud, what’s wrong?_ that would’ve no doubt followed, the way Larry might’ve tilted his chin up and kissed him and– Jordan’s here for a reason.

He deserves Henry’s indifference because he’s been craving this at all, because the promise he’d made Christine has been nothing short of a noose in recent years and Jordan hates the thought with the kind of passion that calls for punishment.

Still, he fights to get lost in the pain-pleasure of it all, keeps his eyes closed and tries to remember better times. It works a little too well.

“Christine,” Jordan breathes out without quite meaning to.

There had been nights when they’d done it like this, though Christine had been gentler, as considerate as she was firm. It’s hard not to think back to the warm intimacy of her embrace.

_Really? **You** sought me out, Jordan. You’re going to waste my time thinking of her?_

Jordan flinches as the words ring out in his head, very nearly deafening.

_Say **my** name._

It’s then he must make a sound, a stifled little cry that lives and dies in his throat, because Henry stops and the world appears to freeze for the longest of moments. Jordan does, too. The cold has spread to his cheeks by now, at the very least. He tries to push back on to Henry’s cock, frantic with this mounting _need_ and heedless of any attempts to be stilled until he finds himself being turned over with the aid of those very same telekinetic hands that had put him here to begin with.

The change in positions sends a jolt of arousal through Jordan, makes him jerk against Henry. Underneath the fog in his mind, there’s the bitter aftertaste of embarrassment.

“Are you… _crying_?” Henry asks. It’s not entirely disgust staining his voice.

Jordan frowns, uncomprehending. He can’t– he’s not– he brings a trembling hand up to his face and knows in an instant that he _is_. A sob stumbles out of him. “I’m sorry– Henry, I didn’t really mean…” Jordan throws an arm over his eyes, unsure of where he’s meant to stand, whether there’s anything salvageable in this evening’s flotsam and jetsam. “It’s our anniversary,” he admits and then thinks to add, “it _was_ our anniversary.”

_Pathetic._

The last thing Jordan expects is to be flipped over once more, facing the mattress with little to show for his now-frozen tears. They’re yet to stop. As Henry’s thrusts pick up and he finds his release in the pliant body beneath him, Jordan wonders how far he’s sunk this time. No relief awaits him.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sportsmaster/Icicle, Sportsmaster/Pat - CRUSHED - "As Larry obsesses over his latest crush, Jordan's spirit slowly wilts." [humour, jordan, being a good sport (haha) asks what makes this guy so special and quickly regrets it. But like... how can this guy be so open about crushing on another dude RIGHT AFTER taking Jordan to pound town?!]"

It’s a specific combination of bone-deep exhaustion and a prevailing afterglow that’s led Jordan here, spread out on Larry’s bed in an ill-fitting _Ripped City_ t-shirt and his own recently-unearthed briefs. All helpfully supplied by Larry, naturally, and the apparent necessity of wiping Jordan down with his own button-up. The one he’d arrived in, of course.

A problem for the future.

He’d have said something – _Henry_ certainly would’ve – but Larry had been terrifyingly earnest about it, what with the way he’d kissed Jordan’s hipbones as he’d gone, carefully manoeuvred his legs open and kissed the inside of his thighs, too, for good measure. There had been precious little to complain about, ruined shirt notwithstanding. Jordan hadn’t thought to bother, hazy with the kind of contentment that’s nearly unfamiliar.

Larry is, predictably, still naked as he joins Jordan in bed. It’s only slightly distracting. “Well, I’m beat,” he declares, stretching until he’s got a leg thrown over Jordan’s. “You spending the night? I betcha Paula’s just about done with that job and I’m sure she’d love some ice ice–”

“Don’t say _baby_.” Jordan huffs out a laugh, an odd sense of warmth in his chest.

As if on cue, the ice gathered around Jordan’s side where his shirt rides up cracks as it melts against Larry. _That’s_ not tremendously good news for that borrowed shirt of his. It doesn’t stop the loud guffaw of Larry’s laughter, more than likely spurred on by his effect on the cold. “I don’t even know why you still do bounties,” Jordan mumbles in vague protest, “you do have actual jobs–”

“Aw, bud, you know why.” The electric blue of Larry’s eyes goes startlingly bright as he leans in close, “’cause if Paula gets bored, the claws come out.” As if to prove his point, he bites down on Jordan’s neck. Hard.

Jordan yelps.

Distantly, the easy intimacy of it nearly overwhelms. It’s been years since Christine, anything resembling happiness remains tainted by the ever-present guilt of betrayal. Henry’s cutting familiarity seems nearly safe when Jordan would give anything to sink into this moment alone. It can’t mean as much to Larry but then again, he doesn’t need it to. Eventually, Jordan nods. A belated response to a question that might’ve already gone forgotten. Home strikes him as too dismal an idea, the nightly routine of reaching out for the empty side of the bed as near-unbearable. At any rate, Cameron had gone to bed before he’d even left. There’s no light drawing him back.

It might be the ensuing silence that has Larry trailing a finger across Jordan’s exposed stomach, cutting a clear line in the frost gathered there as he pushes his shirt further up. “You know what, Icy?” he starts, pleasantly immediate in his affection, “you should come by the gym, meet this new hot piece of ass. He moved here from California or New York or whatever-the-fuck, I wasn’t payin’ attention but, bud, I’m telling ya, this guy’s something else.”

The telltale ache between his legs and the cloying stickiness that only a thorough shower can erase tells Jordan he hasn’t imagined the past hour. He frowns – as ineffectual as his smiles, still cruising on that sweet afterglow despite the potential of an upcoming rude awakening.

“What?” he manages, stilling Larry’s hand where it’s delved under his shirt. The heat of him stirs something in Jordan, always has. Another round dwells in the realm of impossibility.

“I’m just sayin’, it’d cheer ya up!” Larry insists, grinning wide.

And Jordan, who hadn’t considered himself in urgent need of cheering up beyond the usual, must make a sound in the back of his throat, some vague hum of confusion that pushes Larry into nosing against his neck and continuing this inexplicable praise of whoever Blue Valley’s newest resident happens to be. Jordan’s got an inkling of it, thinks of Barbara Whitmore from the American Dream and her sunshine-smile and the way her husband can’t possibly be Larry’s so-called– _hot piece of ass_.

“It would cheer me up to… go to your gym?” It’s a fair assumption, Jordan supposes, looking down at himself and the _Ripped City_ t-shirt that still smells like Larry, bizarrely earthy and warm and hinting faintly at sweat. It’s almost certainly what he’d been wearing before they’d gotten started.

“Yeah, baby! You gotta see this guy in action!”

It fails to answer a single one of Jordan’s questions, most related to Larry’s lack of geographical-clarity or his refusal to read the room.

Tilting his head in favour of the kisses now being peppered along his neck, Jordan thinks on that and reaches very few conclusions. It’s equally possible he’s well on his way to a rare good night’s sleep. “Is this like that time you wanted to sleep with Green Lantern?” he finally asks, goes as far as to roll over so he’s facing Larry. It takes some amount of willpower not to glance down.

Sportsmaster’s mania lights up Larry’s features. There’s a burst of uncontainable frenzy, rarely seen outside of the field, injected into his grin and Jordan knows that kind of opening is nothing short of blood in the water for the likes of Larry. It’s a hard-earned lesson. “If you mean like the time I wanted to _fuck_ Greenie then– no! Noooo, no, it’s nothin’ like that, this is like–” Unable to decide what it’s like, Larry resumes like there’d been no pause at all. “Kinda. It’s kinda like that! Okay, yes, it’s exactly like that but listen, if we’re talkin’ in terms of ass, this guy isn’t anything like Green–”

It’s then the door’s practically ripped open and Jordan flinches at the sight of an especially bloodied Paula, dim light catching on the glint of her claws. It might be high-time to reconsider that good night’s sleep.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fic prompt: Jordan being scaroused by Larry's new scruff. Bonus funny moment if Jordan doesn't recognize him at first and/or is impressed by the sheer volume in a short amount of time."

There’s no mistaking just whose laugh echoes in the tunnels underneath Blue Valley and interrupts the unwilling monotony of a speech Jordan had spent the entirety of the night before on. It’s been, by Jordan’s vague and mostly unhelpful calculations when he’s hardly thought to keep track, two weeks since Larry has last graced the ISA’s meeting room with his presence. Jordan hasn’t missed him as much as–

He _has_ missed him, he supposes. Or, rather, missed what Larry’s always brought to the table. In the absence of manic grins and bright-eyed jokes, the necessary discussions of the plan seem to have lost some of their shine. Henry, never one in the business of enthusiasm, has proved particularly reluctant to welcome Jordan into his home over the winter break, with Hank around to question late-night rendezvous and the like.

What’d been the perfect cover for the Crocks missing in action, and Larry’s certainly said a long recon mission’s not unlike a _snoozefest_ of a vacation to him, has left Jordan out of sorts in matters of belief. The remaining Injustice Society looking back at him, with a notable-but-not-surprising lack of Dr. Ito, offers up little encouragement. It’s been the same for too long now, though Jordan’s appreciated the extra time with Cameron and a gap in the so-called dream that won’t get him accused of stalling.

So, as luck would have it, Jordan hears Larry before he sees him. There’s traces of a conversation out there in the echo – Paula’s firm reply that goes unheard and an overeager _Alright, baby! Alright!_ that only one man’s ever managed to make sound so genuine.

It’s all the warning Jordan gets before Larry comes bounding down the stairs, indifferent to all notions of timing. As a matter of fact, with the way Paula has traded her Tigress regalia – a rarity in itself down here in the tunnels – for comfortable sweats and a hoodie, there seems to be a good enough chance they’ve only just made it into town. It fails to render Larry’s appearance any more comprehensible.

“We freakin’ did it, bud!” Larry declares with a flourish that ends with his arms wide open like he’s waiting for a hug. Having known Larry for a number of years now, Jordan suspects he might very well be.

For his own part, Jordan stares and doesn’t quite trust his eyes.

He knows, all at once and without a shadow of a doubt, that Henry’s no doubt throwing glances his way in turn, razor-sharp and digging in deep. The ISA’s illustrious leader rendered speechless. It wouldn’t be a first. The thing is– Larry’s got a _beard_.

Lawrence ‘Larry’ ‘Crusher ‘Sportsmaster’ Crock, chronically clean-shaven and sufficiently put-together, looks… scruffy.

That’s one word for it.

Jordan feels his palms crack open with ice and covers the telltale shift of it with a cough.

“Meeting dismissed,” he says and doesn’t wilt under Henry’s gaze nor the quirk of an eyebrow. He doesn’t melt, either. In a manner of speaking, it’s a personal victory. Jordan’s aware there will be choice words exchanged, he’s grateful to be spared a telepathic barrage for the time being. Mostly, as Jordan gradually finds himself left alone with Larry and Paula, a sense of anticipation skitters up the back of his neck. It’s a search for an explanation, he thinks, that’s at the forefront of his mind.

There’s something ruggedly compelling to Larry’s beard, an added intensity to the electric blue of his eyes and the near-deranged look ingrained in there. His hair’s falling over his forehead, unfamiliar without the mask. He strikes one as a man capable of anything. Jordan doesn’t know what he’s meant to do about the heat stirring in his stomach.

When Larry grins, all teeth, it’s hard to look away. “Babe,” he starts and the grin doesn’t fade as he turns to Paula, “how about you go on ahead while I talk shop with Icy? You’ve been drivin’ all day an’ all that.”

For the longest time, Paula seems to consider that. “I’m fine right here,” she decides, a hint of amusement tugging at the corners of her lips as she sits herself down right on the ISA table. There’s always been a certain presence to her, a feline danger. It holds steady.

Jordan, abruptly awkward, merely stands his ground with the clear impression that _he_ should, in fact, be on his way. With the immensity of Larry’s focus on him, movement remains an afterthought. “How did– how did the recon mission go?” he chokes out, sounding only barely like himself. There must be tendrils of ice spiderwebbing across his cheeks, cracks in a façade of composure. As Larry circles the room and stops close enough to rest his hands on Jordan’s hips, it stops mattering.

“See something you like, champ?” Larry asks and up-close, he’s something else. There’s little to be said as Jordan’s pulled into a hungry kiss, the scratch of Larry’s beard against him is startling, nearly foreign, distinctly and dizzyingly masculine. He’s breathless as they part, holding onto Larry without quite meaning to.

“That’s–” Jordan clears his throat, embarrassed by the sight of his own breath gone chilly, “that’s really– nice, Crusher.” It seems more damning than silence.

“Uh-huh.” Larry winks and keeps a loose grip on Jordan, the ghost of a touch. “It is, isn’t it?” he adds, pressing a kiss to Jordan’s cheek. The wet _smack_ of it resounds. “Y’know, I think we should celebrate! You’ll love what I have in mind, bud. I mean, Paula here _loves_ the beard when I go down on–”

Against his better judgement, Jordan freezes in an instant.

“It’s true,” Paula confirms and her amusement seems to have only deepened in the meantime.

That’s got Larry laughing, loud and clear in the deserted meeting room. “Oh, I missed this,” and he pauses for another kiss, terrifyingly earnest, “we’re gonna have _so_ much fun, Icy.”

Jordan’s in for a long night. He can’t say he minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOME VISUAL REFS:

**Author's Note:**

> find me @ufonaut on tumblr!


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